The Road to Las Vegas
by JacquiT
Summary: A prequel, set about two years before the pilot, which tells the tale of how Nick Stokes came to Las Vegas.
1. Chapter 1

_All right - I'm taking the plunge. Here is the first chapter of a story which explores my version of the events that brought Nick to to Las Vegas. I hope you enjoy._

A special thank you goes to ilovesara801 for her Spanish beta work - it's very much appreciated!

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__September 1997_

Judge Bill Stokes looked weary as he sat down at the table in the kitchen, across from his wife.

"Anything?" she asked, anxiety etched into her pretty features.

"Nothin' new," her husband reported. "Last time anyone saw him was two nights ago."

"And PD can't do anything? Put out an APB? Trace his bank account? Nothing?"

"He's an adult, Jilly." Bill's tone was more harsh than he meant it to be, but he didn't correct himself. "There's been no crime committed and there's no suspicion of foul play."

Jillian looked away, shaking her head. "What's he doin', Bill?"

"I wish I knew. All we can do is wait for Nicky to contact us." He paused a moment, and then quietly ventured, "I might have an idea about where he is."

Jillian turned her head sharply, her eyes ablaze. "You just said there was nothing new."

He held up a hand. "There's nothing that anyone can confirm. I was followin' a hunch."

"What is it?"

"On Tuesday a marriage certificate was filed in Clark County, Nevada. The groom was listed as Nicholas P. Stokes."

Jillian's eyes were wide. "Who the hell was the bride?"

"Maria Serrano."

"But . . . the Serranos . . . they're gone. They've been gone for years."

Bill nodded. "I know, Jilly. I don't understand it myself. The fella I talked to recognized the groom's address as the Las Vegas PD. The bride's was a hospital or something. There very well could be some other Nicholas P. Stokes in the world eloping to, or living in, Las Vegas."

Jillian shook her head, unable to make sense of it. "What's he _doin'_, Bill?" she repeated.

He mimicked her. "I wish I knew, Jilly."

* * *

Earlier That Month

Cleaning out the evidence room was the CSI equivalent of mucking out stalls. It stunk, but it had to be done. This was the assignment Nick Stokes, CSI Level I with the Dallas Police Department, had been given one afternoon as his shift kicked off. He hated it as much as he hated mucking stalls, although it wasn't because he was opposed to the work. It wasn't because it was a job for the low man on the totem pole, and he hadn't been the low man for a long time. It wasn't because his fellow CSIs smirked when he got handed the task, every quarter like clockwork, just because Captain Fischer enjoyed being able to hand grunt work to the son of a judge he greatly disliked. It wasn't even because he didn't get paid as much when he wasn't in the field, or that more often than not he missed out on good cases that got handed to rookies.

Really, it was because the moment everything was in order, it went to hell in a handbasket again.

He was gloomily muttering to himself about that fact when Captain Fischer rapped on the door frame with his knuckle.

"See me when you're done, Stokes." He was gone before Nick could turn around to reply.

Several hours later, Nick was covered in a layer of dust and sweat when he entered the captain's office. "You wanted to see me, Cap?"

"Yeah, Stokes . . . I got a job for you. You remember that fella with the dead Mexicans in his truck?"

Nick nodded, disquieted. "Yeah, I remember. Six Mexicans died so he could avoid the wrist-slap sentence he was gonna get for bringin' 'em over."

Fischer grunted. He wasn't going to get into it with Stokes again over immigration. "Got a call from a fella named Brass from Las Vegas lookin' for information. The fingerprints you found in the truck match a fella they got in custody, but he ain't talkin'. You're goin' to process."

"Process?" questioned Nick. "In Las Vegas?"

"Yeah, in Vegas," replied the captain impatiently. "The work don't come to you, Stokes."

"Right." The captain usually had a way of making Nick feel inept.

"Juneeta's got your flight and hotel all set. You better go home and pack; you leave in a couple hours."

"Can't I go tomorrow?" complained Nick, who was exhausted.

"No, Stokes. They need you ASAP."

Nick nodded. "Right. As soon as possible, after I'm done doin' your bitch work."

Fischer smirked. "That's right."

"It ain't funny, Fish."

"Don't cop an attitude with me, Stokes. I ain't in the mood. It ain't like you got somethin' to go home to anyway – you can sleep on the plane."

"This is gettin' old," spat Nick. "Maybe this let's-push-Nick's-buttons shit was funny when I was a rookie, but I ain't no more. I'm a good CSI, dammit – I have a ninety-four percent solve rate."

Fischer sighed. "What are you gonna do, Stokes? Complain to dear old dad? He can't help you."

Nick's throat constricted in anger at the mention of his father. He closed his eyes and swallowed several times in an effort to control it. Then he chuckled bitterly.

"What's funny?"

"You, Fish," replied Nick. "You're hilarious." Without explaining, he turned and walked away.

In the hallway, he allowed his features to take on the annoyance he felt at Captain Fischer, until he reached the department secretary's desk.

"Hola, Juanita," he said with a pleasant smile.

"Hola, Nicolas," she replied, always happy to talk to Nick. He was one of the very few considerate people she worked with; her English was decent but not perfect, and many officers complained that her accent was too thick. "Como estas?"

Nick grunted a little. "Consado y un poco enojado," he replied. "Y tu?"

"Mejor que tu," she replied with a smile. "Does this have to do with the trip to Las Vegas you're getting?"

"Ah, yes . . . Captain Fischer told me that Juneeta had my itinerary." He leaned on the desk a little, hoisting his eyebrow.

"Well, I don' know who Juneeta is, but I have your flight and hotel information here. I'll let her know I gave it to you." Smilingly she handed Nick an envelope.

"Gracias," he said as he took it, winking at her. "You know, you shouldn't keep covering for that Juneeta; she oughtta be pullin' her own weight."

"One day I will find her out," said Juanita, who, despite being very married, enjoyed her flirtations with Nick. "She'll get it then."

Nick winked at her again. "Good luck with that," he replied. "I'll see you in a few days." Juanita nodded and offered her own salutations, and Nick headed for the locker room.

* * *

Nick entered the front door of the apparently very busy Las Vegas Crime Lab. Approaching the front desk, he smiled at the frumpily dressed woman sitting at the telephone and greeted her.

"Hi there. I'm Nick Stokes from the Dallas Crime Lab." He flashed his ID, secured around his neck as usual. "Warrick Brown is expecting me."

"All right," replied Judy, the receptionist. "Just one moment, please." She picked up her phone and paged, and a few moments later Nick looked down the hall to find a tall black man approaching him.

"You Stokes?" he asked.

"That's right," replied Nick.

Warrick held out his hand for Nick to shake. "I'm Warrick Brown."

"Call me Nick," he said as he shook Warrick's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, likewise," said Warrick as he turned toward the lab. "Why don't we take a minute to compare notes quick and then I'll take you on down to the garage. Captain Brass is holding our suspect. His passenger's in the hospital, looks pretty bad."

Nick nodded in understanding. "Not unusual," he replied as they walked. "We don't see a lot of this in Dallas, but every once in a while the Rangers will pull one over. You spend days in the back of an over-heated, moldy van or trailer, nothin' good's gonna happen. Drivers don't stop to get 'em food or water . . . or even let 'em out for air or to use the bathroom, if they can help it. They just get 'em where they're going as fast as possible."

"This guy says he didn't know he had live cargo," noted Warrick.

Nick smirked. "Yeah, sure," he replied. "And lemme guess – he feels just awful."

Warrick smiled as he led Nick into the conference room. "What, you don't believe him?"

Nick set his kit down and pulled out his file. "I believe the wad of cash I'm sure you found in his pocket." As the door clicked, Warrick took a seat next to Nick and opened his own file. "Though usually, the live cargo stays live. This guy left his truck on the side of the road with the door closed, latched, and padlocked. He had eleven people in the back; six of them died. Only reason Dallas PD is interested in chasin' the guy is 'cuz they weren't all illegal immigrants. There were two reporters in the mix. One of them was dead when PD opened the truck and one died a few days later in the hospital."

Warrick shook his head. "Man, that's a serious problem," he said angrily. "Six dead people and the only reason you're here is because of the two who were white?"

Nick paused a moment before he answered Warrick. "They were all Mexicans," he said quietly.

"Oh."

"It's a flawed system," continued Nick. "For most police departments the squeaky wheel gets the grease. The two reporters were US citizens. Their families want answers – they want justice. Most often all we do is send everyone back home, but this guy . . . I think they'd like to stick a needle in his arm."

Warrick shook his head. "I'm sorry. Guess I'm still not used to seeing what people are capable of."

Nick smiled. "Me either," he said. "But for the record, Brown . . . _I'm_ here for all six of them."

Warrick nodded. "Then let's get this guy got," he said. "And you can call me Warrick."

Settling in a chair, Nick replied, "Well, Warrick, why don't you tell me what you know about Mr. Fingerprint."

Warrick sat across from him. "Right now we don't know anything; the guy won't talk. I'm pretty sure he can speak English, but he wouldn't even talk to the interpreter to tell her he wasn't going to talk."

"And what did y'all pick him up for?"

"Speeding," replied Warrick, which surprised Nick.

"You'd think he'd avoid that kind of attention."

"I think what's goin' on is that the driver and the girl who's in the hospital are related – I'm guessing father and daughter. He was picked up just off the strip. Told the officer he was trying to get to the hospital."

"Does the officer speak Spanish?"

"Yeah – Sam Vega; he's fluent. But now that the guy's sitting at PD he won't talk, not to anyone."

Just then, a stout, balding man in a suit knocked on the doorframe and entered. "The girl woke up," he said, addressing Warrick. "You comin'?"

Warrick looked up. "Yeah," he replied, and then gestured to Nick. "Brass, this is Nick Stokes from the Dallas crime lab. Nick, this is Captain Brass – he's our fearless leader here on the graveyard shift."

Nick and Brass shook hands. "Nice to meet you, sir," said Nick.

Brass smirked at him. "Likewise," he said.

"We were just comparing notes," said Warrick. "Let us get this locked up and we'll head over."

"I'm drivin'," said Brass as he left the room. Warrick sighed and shook his head.

Nick smiled at him. "You don't get along so well?"

Picking up the folder he'd set down just a moment before, Warrick shook his head. "Let's say we rub each other the wrong way."

"I can relate," replied Nick. "I don't exactly get along with mine, either."

"Must come with the title," said Warrick as they headed to the evidence locker.

In Brass' car on the way to the hospital, the three men shared small talk, which mostly involved Nick talking about himself and his experience. Nick thought Captain Brass was an amiable kind of guy – sarcastic and probably a bit tough, but he liked that. It reminded him of his Grandpa Stokes.

When they arrived they were directed to the Telemetry unit. Warrick remarked that he didn't think the girl had been that ill.

"It's not the trip that made her sick in the first place," replied Brass. "They're running tests on her to figure out what it is, but it doesn't look good."

"Food poisoning or something?" supposed Warrick as they approached the nurse's station.

"Might be malaria, if she's had bad water," said Nick.

Brass nodded his head at an approaching nurse. "I'm sure these lovely ladies can help us out," he said with a smile. "I'm Detective Jim Brass with LVPD. This is my colleague Warrick Brown, and Nick Stokes from the Dallas PD. We're here to see a young lady we brought in a few days ago."

"The one you wanted us to handcuff to the bed?" asked the nurse, tilting her head in the direction of one of the rooms. Nick's eyes followed her gesture.

"That's the one," replied Brass brightly. "What's her condition?"

"She's still not goin' anywhere and I'm still not letting you handcuff her," replied the nurse, unimpressed by the badge that Brass had flashed. "She's more stable than yesterday, but right now all we're providing her with is comfort measures. There's been no diagnosis yet. You'll have to talk to her doctor for that and he won't be around for about an hour."

"Can we go talk to her?" asked Warrick.

The nurse nodded. "Yeah, if she's awake."

Brass nodded. "Great. Thanks," he said as he turned toward the room. He and Warrick walked swiftly past Nick and entered. Nick followed.

"Good morning," said Brass, too loud and too cheery. The girl in the bed opened her eyes and turned her head slowly. Brass watched her blink once as he introduced himself, and she closed her eyes again. "We need to ask you some questions about the man you're traveling with. What's your name?"

Nick cleared his throat, and with a voice thick with unexpected emotion, told Brass, "Her name is Maria Isabel Garcia de Serrano."

Warrick looked around, expecting to see a chart, a get-well card, an ID – anything that would naturally have her name on it that he'd missed when his eyes initially swept the room. "How'd you know that?"

But Nick's eyes had locked on the girl's face when he entered the room, and hadn't moved. She was ill, that was certain – the rosy tint in her cocoa-colored cheeks had been replaced by a deathly pallor, her face was thin, and she was smaller than he remembered. But she was unmistakably _there_. After nine years of searching, wondering, and hoping, she was there. Maribel was with him again.

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(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you again to my Spanish beta reader - ilovesara801 - particularly for this chapter :) Enjoy!

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Spring 1986

Growing up, Nicholas Parker Stokes had the vague understanding that he was something of a prize to be won. This notion never sat well with him. His parents, both lawyers and one eventually a judge, were all about truth, justice, and the American way – a real-life Superman and Wonder Woman in his eyes – and from an early age had taught him that people were people, no matter what. People were not to be used or mistreated or disregarded, not for any reason. Therefore, as he became a young man and started noticing girls (and noticed that girls noticed him) it confounded him to realize that his parents actually encouraged him toward girls who were what society considered "good" and raised their disapproving eyebrows whenever he looked sideways at a girl who was considered "unsavory."

Jenny Baker was of the kind considered unsavory. Her father was an alcoholic who tended the high school grounds and her mother was considered loose. Everyone referred to Jenny's parents as Mr. and Mrs. Baker, even though everyone also knew that they were not married. But Jenny was beautiful and kind and Nick was particularly taken with her, even though he knew that she was not particularly intelligent. Eventually, Nick would admit to his brother over a beer that he had dated Jenny because she had been blessed with enormous breasts, and she let him touch them.

Nick's parents were quietly tolerant of Nick and Jenny's relationship because they knew it wasn't going to last. Judge Stokes, who was kind until he was crossed, referred to her as The Bimbo. A few months into the relationship, when Nick was roughly fifteen and nearing the end of his freshman year of high school, Jenny came to dinner at the Stokes' ranch.

Economically Jenny and Nick were polar opposites. Nick, at the time, thought that Jenny understood this but was unprepared for her to be awed by everything in the house, including Mrs. Stokes' matched dinnerware ("Did you have to buy each dish separately or did they all come in a set?"). As ever, the Stokeses were kind and patient, although Nick noted that they refused to look at each other. After the meal, he had planned to take her on a walk to the stable and wherever else their feet would take them away from prying eyes, but she had really embarrassed him with some of her comments – one in particular when she had confusedly asked, "So you mean you don't get paid for playing baseball?"

Within a few weeks Jenny and Nick had said their good-byes, which didn't bother Nick as much as he thought it should. He was then subjected to a lecture on being careful to choose his dates wisely, and names were thrown around, the same names as when his older brother had been subjected to the same lecture – Patterson, Rodgers, Whitehouse, McCullen. Nick nodded dutifully and summarily ignored it, but now knew better than to date airheads. More than a handful of times, anyway.

Fortunately, practice had begun for baseball, which was a distraction not from the pain of losing Jenny, but the disappointment of not having a girlfriend (and therefore not having anyone to feel up). The practice field was bordered by a grove of trees on one side and there was more than one baseball hidden in the bracken there, strays from freshmen trying out or little brothers who came to watch or play catch until their elders were finished with practice. Nick remembered being a little brother watching the high school kids play, waiting for his older brother Billy.

He and Billy both played baseball, but were far apart enough in age that most of the time, there was little competition between them. Most of it came from who got the last piece of meat at the dinner table. But one spring day, Nick waited near the grove by the practice field, watching Billy's team scrimmage. Drew McFarland was at bat. He was a hulk of a kid who only played baseball for something to do between football seasons. If he did nothing he'd get too big to play football, and he loved football more than he loved his own mother.

Billy pitched a fast ball to Drew, who swung with all his might. The runner on second took off. Nick's head snapped up as the bat hit the ball with a thundering crack and, acting on instinct more than anything else, he rose, eyes on the ball, and ran. The ball landed with a sharp smack in his bare hand; Nick ignored the burning pain and hurled the ball, lightening-quick and right on target, to the third baseman. The scrimmage was over, Billy's team had lost, and things were never the same between them.

Nick, however, had earned himself a spot on the high school baseball team. This would eventually lead to a college scholarship, but more importantly for Nick, it led to Maribel.

* * *

Nick was particularly focused on baseball that year. Before Jenny he hadn't had a girlfriend who let him touch anything more than her hand, and a nagging coach, as well as nagging teachers and parents, were plenty to keep him busy enough to forget about her.

The team was good that year, but then the team was usually good. The boys practiced hard, any position they didn't completely suck at. For Nick, there were none. He didn't like to catch and because he was a good team player otherwise, the coach didn't make him. He was a great hitter, loved to pitch and was satisfied enough to play third base.

The day he met Maribel he was playing outfield during a scrim. Nick was focused on the game and didn't realize that a boy about half his size had come through the grove of trees on the opposite side of the field as Nick and stood watching also, transfixed on the game. Drew McFarland's little brother, a lithe, willowy creature called Bubba, was at bat. Bubba's figure was deceptive; he could hit like Drew and he did just then, the ball flying over the other players' heads into the outfield, in the direction of the boy.

In any case, Nick would have darted for the ball, but he ran even harder as he realized that the boy wasn't moving. His other teammates shouted for the boy to get out of the way, and they all came running; even Coach Patterson had risen from his usual perch and was lumbering toward the outfield.

"Get that damn ball, Stokes! Get that damn ball!"

When Nick was close enough he dove to put his glove between the boy and the ball seconds before the two collided, landing on his back with a huff. The rest of the team had stopped running but were looking curiously on as Coach reached the kid, who looked miffed.

"Boy, what the hell're you doin' in the field? That ball coulda kilt you!"

The boy said nothing. Nick looked on from the ground, making sure he hadn't strained anything before he sat up.

Coach was not the type of man who liked his questions to go unanswered. "Answer me, boy!"

The boy still said nothing but continued to look put out, his eyes on Nick's glove where the ball, which had threatened moments before to crush his skull, was hidden. Nick rose from the ground, observing the boy's defiant stance and dark skin. "I don't think he speaks English, Coach."

Coach huffed a little. "Ask him what the hell he's doin' on my field, then," he said to Nick, who he knew spoke fluent Spanish. All of the Stokeses did.

Nick looked down at the boy, who must have been ten or eleven, and asked, "¿Por qué estás en el campo?"

"Miraba el juego. Quise coger la bola."

"Lo te lastimaría. Estos muchachos lanzan de gran alcance."

The boy looked stern when he repeated, "Quise. Coger. La bola."

"He says he was watchin' the game, Coach. He was gonna catch Bubba's ball."

His teammates snickered. Coach grunted. "Woulda broke his hand, more like. Lucky he didn't break his head."

"That's what I told him, Coach."

Coach checked his watch. "All right . . . we're done here, boys. Take two laps and go on home. Stokes, you get this kid someplace that ain't my field. Nice catch, by the way."

Nick nodded in recognition of Coach's compliment but was annoyed at being assigned as the boy's babysitter. To compensate for this, when his teammates began to run, Nick pointed at them, and then at the boy. "Run! Corré!"

The boy took off like a shot after the others. Nick ran his two laps, passing the boy, who was substantially shorter than him, three times.

While Nick's teammates gathered their gloves and bats, the boy looked on curiously. "Sientete," said Nick, pointing at the dust. The boy sat. Once he'd said his farewells to his friends on the team, switched out his cleats for sneakers, and had his bat and glove tucked into his duffel bag with his homework, he crooked a finger at the boy, who rose and approached him.

"¿Como te llamas?" asked Nick.

"Carlos," replied the boy.

"Soy Nick," said Nick, gesturing to his sweaty t-shirt.

"Neek," repeated Carlos, pleased. "Podemos ahora jugar?"

"No," Nick sternly replied. "Nick, like tick or stick. Nick."

"Sí," said Carlos. "Lo usted consigo. Neek."

"No, no. . . ." Nick waved his hand impatiently. "Niiiihhhck."

"Neeeek," said Carlos. "¿Beisbol, Neek?"

"No, no Neek," snapped Nick, but Carlos was smiling. Annoyed, Nick decided on a different approach. "Okay . . . _Nicolas_. Soy Nicolas."

"Sí. Lo usted consigo. Su nombre es Nicolas."

"Sí."

"Sí. ¿Podemos jugar beisbol, Nicolas? ¿Por favor?"

"Lo siento, pero no," replied Nick, much to Carlos' disappointment. He then explained that he needed to be home for supper and then had homework, and he was going to walk Carlos home after using the payphone to call his mother.

Since Nick wasn't yet sixteen and able to drive a car – legally anyway – he still relied on others for transportation. Most of the time his mother was able to accommodate him, so Nick and Carlos walked across the street to the school building in companionable silence, and once Nick was finished explaining the situation to Mrs. Stokes he turned to Carlos and asked where he lived.

Nick winced when Carlos replied. It was going to be a long walk.

* * *

Carlos chattered on the entire six-block walk to his house. Nick was fluent in Spanish because the Stokes' housekeeper, who also played the role of nanny off and on when Nick and his six older siblings were younger, was a native of Guadalajara. Part of her job included teaching the Stokeses Spanish, and in so doing, she learned English quite well.

Nick's fluency sometimes wasn't enough, usually when he was speaking with those whose native language was Spanish, and especially those who were talking as quickly as Carlos was. The boy's youthful exuberance didn't help, neither did the fact that Nick was exhausted, hungry, and knew he had about three hours' worth of homework to do once he finally got home and ate. His heavy duffel bag only added to his fatigue.

At the end of the block where Carlos lived, which appeared to Nick to be a slightly impoverished but not untidy neighborhood, he started exclaiming and pointing at his house and encouraged Nick to run to catch up. Nick did not run.

"Vamanos! Vamanos!"

"No," was all Nick had to say in reply.

As Carlos waited for Nick to catch up, a petite and raven-haired but utterly furious girl came flying out of the front door of a house with chipped green paint. She began berating Carlos in that quick Spanish that Nick couldn't follow closely enough to understand, and once she had given Carlos an opening to speak, he replied just as quickly, pointing at Nick.

The girl looked up at Nick. It might have been his hunger or fatigue, or the general raging of hormones, but Nick froze. She was a striking girl, Nick guessed about his own age, her glossy hair flowing in the breeze as she sized Nick up. The color was high in her cheeks and a scowl marred her pretty features.

She was much less impressed with Nick. "What do you want, gringo?"

The word jolted Nick's admiration of the pretty girl. Her accent was thick, but she spoke clearly. He scrambled for words a moment before he answered, "Nothin'."

She glared at him before turning on her heel and shooing Carlos into the house. Before she was able to enter the house herself, Nick recovered his wits enough to holler, "Hey, you're welcome!"

She slammed the door. With the scowl still firmly in place, she turned to march up to him and spat, "What am I welcome for?"

"Traje su hogar del hermano con seguridad," he replied.

"I'm not impressed with your Spanish, gringo," she snapped.

Now Nick scowled right back, stung by her rejection. "I'm not impressed with your English. I'm just bringin' your brother home." Nick turned to trek the six blocks back to school, where his mother would pick him up.

"He was perfectly safe walking _there_ by himself," she spat.

He turned back to the girl again, who was standing in the sidewalk with her arms crossed. Her scowl had not budged. "Perfectly safe?" he asked, incredulous. "He almost got his head bashed in by a baseball!"

"Carlos is not a lost little puppy and _you_ are not his white knight."

"What is _with_ you?" asked Nick, in full defensive mode now. "I bring your little brother home and all you got for me is 'gringo'?"

"What were you expecting, an award?" she shot back. "You call us Mexicans, we call you gringos."

Nick waved a finger at her, shaking his head. "No, no . . . you call us _Norte Americanos_, we call you Mexicans. You call us gringos, we call you wetbacks."

The girl held onto her scowl, but the disbelief in her eyes was unmistakable. Having done his damage, which he knew he would not be proud of later on, he tilted his head. "Tenga una tarde agradable, Señorita." And with that, he turned to walk the six blocks back to the high school, steaming all the way.

By the time he opened his mother's car door, he was already sorry he had uttered the slur at Carlos's pretty sister. He assumed she was Carlos's sister anyway; she wasn't old enough to be his mother and when Nick called Carlos her brother, he wasn't corrected. He tossed his duffel bag into the back seat and then crawled into the front seat, sighing once his seatbelt was buckled.

"Tough day, Neek?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been expecting his statuesque, polished mother; instead, sitting next to him in the driver's seat, sat the petite and friendly housekeeper.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," she said, her features bright.

"It's OK, Anamaria," he said, settling down and adjusting himself in the seat. "Where's Mom?"

"She got a phone call from the office," replied Anamaria. "I don' mind driving her pretty car." Nick smiled at her and she winked back at him. "Trouble at baseball?"

Nick sighed. "Not really . . . it's just been kind of a tough afternoon."

Anamaria put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. "Your mama told me about the boy on the field. Did you get him home safely?"

"Yeah," replied Nick petulantly. "And got chewed out by his sister for it."

"Oh, Nicolito," she said, patting his knee, "don' get upset. If he was missing she was probably just frightened, and you're a stranger."

"She didn't have to call me a gringo," he replied.

Anamaria drew in a breath. "Please tell me you didn't return that favor and call her what I told you to never call anybody."

Nick paused, for too long. "Not directly, no."

The housekeeper's little hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Nicolas!" she snapped, and Nick winced. "God help you, if you weren't three times my size I would put you over my knee! What does that mean, not directly? You know what, it doesn' matter! I told you never to say that word! I never thought I would have to tell you twice! I say it every day to your brother, but you? _Shame_ on you!"

Nick hung his head. "Lo siento, Anamaria," he said, his voice low.

She sighed heavily in the seat next to him. "You're such a good boy, Nicolito. Why would you say that word?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I'm hungry and tired and I have a lot of homework and I don't know what I was expecting, I just didn't expect someone to come flying out of the house and take my head off for makin' sure a kid got home safely."

Anamaria heaved another dramatic sigh. "It wasn't right for her to say what she said, either. I'm not condoning her word."

"I know."

"Not ever again, Nicolas."

"No, ma'am. Not ever."

* * *

The next day, a few minutes before his first class, Nick was standing at his locker when Carlos' sister leaned on the one next to his. He summarily ignored her.

"¿Como te llamas?" she asked.

Nick smiled. "Gringo," he replied without looking at her. "¿No te recuerda?"

The girl scowled. "Fine. You don' want to play nice, I don' have anything to say."

He slammed his locker and met her eyes. He noted the color in her cheeks as it rose, and mistook it for anger. "I apologize for what I said yesterday," he said, his throat tight with what he would have preferred to say. "Excuse me, I'll be late for class." He pushed past her and merged into the crowd of students, disappearing on his way to World History.

An hour later, when he stopped to switch his history book for calculus, she was there again.

"¿Como te llamas?" she asked again.

He sighed as he shut his locker. "If I tell you will you leave me alone?"

"Probablemente no," she replied, smirking.

He smirked back. "Hasta la vista."

"Enjoy Calculus," she called cheerily at his retreating back.

On subsequent trips to his locker he armed himself with friends. She was there each time but stayed back and only smiled at him. He glared at her for her trouble. After his final class he lingered in the room to discuss an assignment he didn't care about with English teacher he didn't like and hoped that it would waste enough time to ensure that she wouldn't be waiting for him.

The halls were deserted by the time he walked through them. When he arrived at his locker there was no sign of anyone, even the girl who seemed bent on harassing him that day. He heaved a sigh of relief and opened his locker to pull out his book bag.

As he filled it, marking off the mental checklist of all of the homework he'd have that night, he thought of the girl and found himself wishing that he knew her name. He wanted to be able to admit that he'd seen her around the school, but couldn't, in all honesty. There were just too many students to be able to recognize each face.

Once his bag was full he closed his locker and secured the lock, and then turned. He wasn't terribly surprised to find her standing at the end of the bank of lockers. He sighed in resignation, set his shoulders, squared his jaw, and approached.

"Listen," he began, his voice gentle, "I don't-"

"I'm sorry," she said, interrupting. "Carlos make Mama worry. When Mama worries, Papi worries. Papi worries, he get angry and put everyone on edge. I did not mean to insult you; I just wanted you to go away."

Nick searched her face for deceit; finding none, he nodded. "Papi doesn't like gringos."

She shook her head. "No. It's better if you stay away."

"I wasn't plannin' on a return trip."

She looked slightly stricken when he said that, but nodded and turned slightly. "I just wanted to apologize."

Nick nodded. "Apology accepted."

She mimicked him. "Thank you." An awkward silence passed between them.

"Well . . . I gotta get to baseball practice, so . . . I guess I'll see you around."

"Okay." She smiled shyly. "You still haven' told me your name."

Meeting her eyes, he smiled. "I'm Nick," he said.

Her face lit up. "I'm Maribel," she replied.

"You could've just asked Carlos for my name, you know," he pointed out.

She laughed, a teasing sound that settled in his heart as surely as it settled in his ears. "What fun would that have been?" she asked. "Disfrute de la práctica del béisbol . . . Nicolas."

* * *

If anyone wants the English translation of any of the Spanish phrases, please PM me. Thanks!

(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson


	3. Chapter 3

A big thank you to everyone who's left a review or added this to their alerts! Also, thanks go to **ilovesara801 **as well as **elianatcb **for their correction and critique of my Espanol ;) Very much appreciated, ladies!

_

* * *

_

September 1997

"What are the odds?" questioned Jim Brass, as Nick sat, still stricken, in the waiting room on the third floor of the telemetry unit at Desert Palm. "I mean, what _are_ the odds?"

They had been kicked out of Maribel's room while she was regaining consciousness. Her nurse had been agitated to enter the room to find three police officers crowding around her, one of them hollering questions that she was in no condition to answer.

"I wouldn't bet on somethin' like that and I'll put money on anything," replied Warrick, shaking his head. "That's wild, man."

"Nine years I've been lookin' for her," said Nick, his voice a half-whisper, a small part of him still doubting it was true.

"Congratulations Tex, your search is over," said Brass, apathy settling in his features. "But listen, we still have a job to do and I need to know I can still count on you."

Nick's head snapped up to meet Brass' shrewd gaze. "I got this, Captain," he said. "I got this."

"One thing falls out of place and I'm on the horn to Fischer."

"I understand, sir," he replied dutifully, nodding.

Brass sighed and turned to Warrick. "All right – listen. You and Romeo stick around here until she's actually awake. I have better things to take care of – like makin' sure Gilbert doesn't spend our whole budget on a case of fleas."

"It's under control," replied Warrick disinterestedly.

"All right. Call me when you know something." Brass walked away. "I won't hold my breath."

Warrick and Nick were silent in the waiting room. Nick's head swam with questions that needed answers while Warrick wondered just what kind of unwelcome drama he was in for. After a few minutes, Warrick cleared his throat.

"Hey – why don't we go get a cup of coffee?" he suggested. "You need a little distraction and I need a little information."

Nick's confused face met his new friend's and he nodded. "OK. All right. You think she'll be OK?"

"She ain't goin' anywhere, man," said Warrick sympathetically. When Nick nodded, Warrick led his new Texan friend to the cafeteria. They collected cups of coffee and settled at a table on the fringes of the room.

"She wrote me one time," began Nick as he sipped his coffee, staring out the window of the hospital cafeteria. "You know, after she left. She said she was working at that as soon as she had saved enough money she would go back to Mexico and then come into the country legally." He swallowed and met Warrick's eyes for the first time since beginning his tale. "The letter I got was mailed from an address in Houston. The first opportunity I had, I went there, and then three more times after that. I found out her family had all moved to California . . . to Los Angeles. My friend Juanita said I'd never find her there – the Latino population is too big. Turns out she was right." Then he turned from Warrick.

"I'm sorry, man," said the other man, his voice low and smooth.

Nick sensed his discomfiture and screwed up his face, trying to re-focus. "No – uh, I'm sorry. Listen, why don't we just re-focus on the case? We didn't get to talk about Mr. Fingerprint."

"Right," replied Warrick, turning to the file folder he'd brought with him. "Not much to tell, though. I think Brass was figurin' we'd both have more information when we put your evidence and ours together."

"Besides photos of the folks in the truck, all I have are fingerprints, a few food scraps, and some polyester fibers."

Warrick rifled thorough the contents of his case folder and flopped photos down on the table between them. "We have similar evidence – nothing really earth-shattering. Fingerprints, some cups – might get DNA off of those. A thermos with coffee, a set of keys, and fake passports for the driver and your friend Maria."

Looking at the photo of her passport, which indicated that her name was Eva Ramírez, Nick corrected, "Maribel."

Warrick paused and looked at Nick. "I thought it was Maria."

"It's like a contraction . . . Maria Isabel becomes Maribel."

Warrick nodded, not really interested, and went back to the folder. "Huh – that's right. We found this, too." He slid the last photo toward Nick.

Nick, awed, gave a half-hearted chuckle. The evidence photo showed a worn and faded football jersey. The number 48 was clear enough; the name, Stokes, was missing the t and most of the k. He slid the photo closer and tapped on it, shaking his head.

"Is that yours?" asked Warrick, amused.

"Used to be," Nick replied, sipping his coffee.

* * *

_Fall 1988_

Jillian Stokes was chopping an onion when the doorbell rang. She ignored it for a moment before she realized that if she didn't answer it, no one would.

Six of her seven children were either in college or away from home. The seventh, Nick, who was now a senior in high school, was upstairs tending to his homework and most likely had his headphones on. Her husband had never been required to answer a door in his life. He would hunt her down and ask why she wasn't answering it, but wouldn't do it himself.

With a sigh Jillian rinsed her hands, quickly dried them, and then went to the front door.

Nick's girlfriend, Maribel Serrano, stood on the front step, her arms folded across her chest to protect her from the growing chill in the air. Tears were on her cheeks. A concerned smile crossed Jillian's features as she said, "Hello, Miss Maribel."

"Hello, Mrs. Stokes."

"Are you all right, honey?"

"No," she replied with a sniff. "I need to see Nick, please."

"Well, come inside," said Jillian, and when she was standing in the foyer, she touched Maribel's cold arm. "Do you need some privacy?"

Agitated, Maribel shook her head, her long dark hair escaping from behind her ears to curtain her lovely round face. "No. Lo siento . . . I don' have a lot of time." Her accent was thicker than usual.

Jillian nodded and said, "I'll send him right down." She quickly climbed the stairs to retrieve Nick.

While Maribel waited by the Stokes' front door, her head swimming with fear and grief, Bill Stokes approached. "Hello, Maribel," he greeted softly.

Her head snapped up. Bill was an intimidating man, if for no other reason than his stature. "Hello, your honor," she replied.

"Does Nick know you're here?"

"Mrs. Stokes is getting him."

Bill nodded, noting her agitation. "Don't you want to come in? Mrs. Stokes is making supper . . . you could stay and eat with us."

"No gracias," she replied quickly, her eyes filling. "No tengo tiempo; mi familia-" she caught herself before she said more. Nick had advised her to speak to his father in English. "I am sorry. I don't have a lot-"

Bill held up a hand as he came closer. "I speak, Maribel. Enough, anyway."

She nodded. "I have to go. My family is waiting for me."

He understood then, her tears and her agitation, and knew that Nick wouldn't. "I'm sorry," he offered. "You're leaving right now?"

"Si," she replied, trembling.

"Damn," he cursed quietly, shaking his head. "Does your family need anything? Food . . . blankets? Water?"

Maribel stifled a sob. "No se. You can ask my father. Cuidado . . . he has a shotgun."

Bill nodded and exited the house just as Nick ran down the stairs.

"Mari, what's wrong?" he asked as he grasped her hands.

"I have to go," she wailed, and burst into tears. "The police are coming. I have to go. My family is waiting for me."

"The police?" he asked. "What happened? Mari, are you okay?"

From the stairs, Jillian cleared her throat. "I think she means INS, Nicky."

His eyes widened and he turned to Maribel. "INS? Maribel, what the hell happened?"

"My father think someone turn us in," she replied. "Someone at school. Serena is already gone; her family leave everything behind." Serena was Maribel's best friend and cousin. "I don't know where she is, Nicky. Papa say he know where they go, but we have to hurry."

Nick wrapped his arms around Maribel, his mind racing. "You can't go," was all he could think to say.

"Maribel, did I see Judge Stokes leave the house?" asked Jillian.

"Si. He went out to see if my father need anything," she answered weepily from Nick's chest.

"I'll go help him," she said, her brow worried, as she passed the young lovers and left the house.

Once he knew for sure that his mother was out of earshot, Nick pulled Maribel back by the shoulders. "Listen," he said, "you don't have to go. Mari, we're both eighteen. We can go to Las Vegas; we can get married. You can stay here – no one has to know."

This only served to make Maribel cry harder. "No, Nicky! We can't get married. Your father will kill you and mine will kill me."

"I can deal with my father, and yours won't be anywhere near you. You can stay with Audra in Dallas and finish school there. We can go to the same college and get an apartment together." Maribel sobbed and collapsed into Nick's arms again. "I know it's not perfect, Mari, but it'll work."

She thumped his chest with her little fists. "No, it won' work!" she declared. "Everything is so simple for you, Nicky, but it's not for me. If I go with you, even if somebody let us get married, it doesn't mean my family can stay. They still have to go, and I will never see them again!"

"But we'd be _together_," he insisted.

She sobbed. "I can't leave my family. Nicky, I love you and I want to marry you but this isn't the way."

"Then what _is_ the way, Maribel? If you leave how am I ever going to find you?"

"I don' know, Nicky . . . I'm sorry. When we settle again I'll write to you."

He was quiet for a moment. "So . . . letters? I'm supposed to happily give you up for letters."

She beat on his chest again. "Stop thinking about yourself, Nicolas!" she scolded. "My mother, my sisters are scared – I'm scared!"

"I'm sorry," he replied, a lump starting to form in his throat. He embraced her again. "I'm sorry. Maribel, I just want you to be safe . . . I don't want you to be scared."

She sobbed against his chest. Tears flowing down his cheeks, he rubbed her back until her sobs subsided. "I have to go," she said quietly. "They're waiting for me."

He squeezed her tightly and kissed her hair. With a firm grip on her hand he opened the door and led her out, walking slowly along the gravel driveway to where her family waited for her. Bill and Jillian had given them everything they could; gallons of bottled water sat in the bed of the truck, along with a stack of blankets, Maribel's brother Carlos, and three of her four sisters. The littlest, Juanita, sat in the front between her parents.

Maribel turned to Nick before she climbed into the bed of the truck with her siblings. "I am sorry," she said. "Please, don' be mad at me."

"No estoy enojado, Maribel," he replied. Another tear escaped; he brushed it away angrily.

"Yo cuidare de ella, Nicolas," hollered Carlos. "No te preocupes."

Nick sighed and examined her face closely for a while. Then, he smiled bravely at her. "Te amo, Maria Isabel," he whispered. "Te amare siempre."

More tears flowed down her cheeks. "Te escribiré."

He pulled away slightly to pull his football jersey off, and then pulled it over her head as she protested. "Stop, Maribel – take it."

"You know your coach will yell at you," she said.

"I don't care. Take it – I can get a new one."

"Nicky, por favor-"

"Mari, take the jersey. Please. Take it so you won't forget me."

Her father leaned out of the truck window and barked, "Maribel! Subete! Deja de perder el tiempo con ese maldito gringo!"

Nick grabbed her head and kissed her deeply. She returned his movements frantically and it was physically painful when she broke their kiss.

She sobbed. "Te amo, Nicolas. Te amo."

"Te amo."

Tearfully, she pulled away, walking backwards to the truck. Their eyes remained locked; Nick was crying openly now. Carlos put his hand on Maribel's shoulder when she reached the truck's bumper. She turned so that he could help her up into the bed.

Once she was seated, her father put the truck in drive. Maribel blew Nick a kiss. Vaguely, he heard Carlos call, "Gracias por todo. No te preocupes, Nicolas – estara bien."

The truck started down the gravel driveway. Nick followed it slowly, tears flowing down his cheeks. He could hear his father's voice behind him but chose to ignore it. At the end of the driveway, Ramon Serrano made a left turn and took Maribel away from him. He stared at the retreating tail lights, red as devil eyes, and knew that he'd never see her again.

* * *

Again - anyone wanting a translation can PM me. Thank you for reading!

(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the multiple notifications, for those to whom it applies - I just have a small correction that's driving me a little crazy.

Enjoy, and review if you wouldn't mind! :) Thanks for reading!

* * *

Nick went to his senior prom with Jenny Baker. It was months after Maribel had left; he'd had one letter from her, but though he had written back and promised that he would do everything he could so they could be together again, he never heard from her.

Jenny's mood was equal to Nick's – her father had died that winter. By then she had unfairly garnered herself a reputation because a week after his funeral, in a misguided effort to cope with his death, she drank herself silly and spent the night with Bubba McFarland, who was particularly critical of Mr. Baker. Unfortunately, Bubba wasn't known for his discretion.

Both of them were in need of comfort that wasn't necessarily coming from home. Jenny's mother was glad to be rid of her father, and Nick's parents had always thought that Maribel's leaving was for the best. His sisters were as supportive as they could be – most were away at college or starting their own lives. His brother Billy, who didn't like Maribel simply because she wasn't legal, was just home from law school and able to provide Nick with frequent jabs on his foul mood. Billy's new girlfriend, who Nick didn't like simply because she was a pretentious bitch, was happy to help. News that Nick was taking Jenny Baker to the prom caused an argument that cut all communication off for two months.

The morning of the dance, Nick was sitting at the kitchen table eating his oatmeal when Billy sauntered in. "Good morning."

Nick grunted a reply, his mouth full of cereal.

"Big date tonight," continued Billy in a sing-songish voice. "You all ready?"

"Yeah, I'm set."

"Missy's comin' over for dinner." Billy sat down at the table across from Nick.

Nick met Billy's gaze, unimpressed. "Enjoy," was all he said.

"Probably a good thing you won't be here." Billy chuckled a little as he fed himself a spoonful of Raisin Bran. When he was done chewing, he said, "Frankly, I don't want to be embarrassed."

Nick scowled. "About what?"

"About you datin' a whore," he replied.

Fury rose up in the younger Stokes and he felt his cheeks heat up as he rose from his seat, flinging his oatmeal bowl across the room. It landed with a crash on the floor and there was oatmeal everywhere. His aim, of course, was to wrap his hands around his brother's throat, but his father's voice halted him.

"Nicholas!"

The voice was angry and sharp, and Nick didn't sit, but he didn't continue either. It was a conditioned response and he hated his father for it. Even more, he hated that it wasn't directed at Billy.

Bill Stokes stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, his hands on his hips. "What the hell is going on in here?"

Nick's ferocious eyes hadn't moved from Billy's face. "Nothin', sir," he replied tersely.

"Baby Nicky's all worked up over his date," said Billy.

This was too much for Nick and even though he knew there was very little he could get away with, he had to do something. "You're an asshole, Billy," he said, and like lightening his hand reached across the table to flip his brother's cereal bowl upside down. It spilled all over the table, the floor, and Billy's lap. "And you got no reflexes. It's why you suck at baseball."

Without acknowledging his father, he stormed outside to the barn. The barn had become something of a safe haven for him in the last months, not least because it was quiet, the horses non-judgmental. He had many very fond memories of Maribel in the barn, some innocent and some not. He could work in the barn, mucking stalls, tending to the horses, and repairing things here and there, and the labor would serve to calm him and re-focus his mind. Most of the time.

Beyond the general ribbing that Billy and all older brothers were usually guilty of, Nick had a specific grudge. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Billy was the reason Maribel wasn't going to be his date that night. Maribel was a lovable kind of girl; respectful, helpful, and beautiful, she had the ability to charm just about anyone. Nick remembered introducing her to his family on Christmas Eve. Everyone was very kind to her, which he expected; Billy was polite enough, but still dismissive, and the first question he asked Nick when she had gone to celebrate with her family was about her immigration status.

Billy, a budding lawyer, would have known exactly who to contact and would have known exactly what to tell INS in order to get an investigation rolling. In a way, Nick and Maribel's relationship was forbidden love – she was in the country illegally and he was the son of a judge who took a hard stance against illegal immigrants. Billy was very conscious of appearances and even Nick could admit that it didn't make Judge Stokes look good when his son was dating an illegal immigrant. Billy complained every time Maribel joined them for family dinners or other celebrations, but Nick was so stubborn that even though Billy's rudeness made both him and Maribel uncomfortable, he never failed to make sure she was there.

Nick worked in the barn, shoeing his mother's mare and mumbling expletives to himself for a few hours, then went for a run. By the time he got back to the house, Billy was nowhere to be seen. Grateful for the quiet, he showered and studied a little, then readied himself for his date.

* * *

Jenny had chosen a very subtle pink gown, and when she arrived his mother fussed over both of them and made them pose for photos. Nick had long since resigned himself to the fact that almost everyone else at the dance would be romantically linked, and prepared accordingly. He and Jenny did enjoy the dance, and afterward found themselves and a few others camped out at the Stokes ranch in their prom regalia, eating popcorn and watching movies, talking about what they were going to do and how much was going to change when they were all graduated and moving on with their lives. Nick couldn't help but think about how much had already changed, and wanted desperately for at least one thing to go back to the way it was.

The next morning, he rose and showered and then made his friends breakfast. They were loud and obnoxious and Nick knew he was annoying his parents but didn't care. Gradually, they all trickled out to their cars to go home. It was about eleven o'clock when he stood in the driveway and waved at Henry Roberts, a buddy from the baseball team, as he left the ranch in a cloud of dust.

Before he realized it, Billy was next to him. "Y'all have a good time last night?"

Still annoyed, Nick replied tersely. "Yep."

"I guess with everyone else around you didn't get any tail," said Billy with a smirk. Nick glared back at him in response. Billy smiled brightly, and Nick looked behind him to find his parents approaching.

"Mornin', Pancho," said Bill, putting his hands in his pockets. "Glad to see you up and at 'em after your late night."

Nick smiled at his parents, who he really adored. "I hope we weren't too loud."

"You were just fine, Nicky," said Jillian affectionately. Behind Nick, a car appeared in the driveway, rolling slowly so it woudn't kick up too much dust. "Are you going to join us for lunch with Missy?"

Nick smiled saccharinely. "You know, I would, but I have a ton of homework to finish for Monday," he replied as Missy, Billy's girlfriend, emerged from her car and approached. To be polite, and only to be polite, he turned around to greet her.

"Hello there, Mr. Nicholas!" she exclaimed once she'd said hello to their parents. "How was your big date?"

"Hi Missy," he replied, his voice low. "It was nice, thanks."

"Billy tells me you had a very _friendly_ girl to take to the prom – isn't that right, Billy?" She smiled, flashing her teeth, and Billy's chest puffed a bit.

Nick's mood sank instantly. "Jenny's a very _nice_ girl," he replied, his dander up.

"It's too bad you had to get a replacement," said Billy, "but really, that's what you get for not checking for a green card first." Missy giggled at his joke; the Stokes elders were not amused, but remained silent.

Nick sighed and tried valiantly not to storm away. "You know what, Billy, that really. . . that's just enough, okay?"

Billy rolled his eyes. "Oh, Jesus. . . . You're not still _mooning _over that stupid little spic, are you?"

Jillian was horrified at her eldest son's use of a racial slur, but not nearly as angry as her youngest son, whose fist connected with Billy's jaw so fast that not even the judge had seen it coming.

"Fuck you, Billy!" Nick exclaimed as he shook his right index finger at his brother as he landed on the ground at his girlfriend's feet. He bit back a wince; his hand hurt so much he wondered if it were broken. "_Fuck_ you." Angry and disgusted, and knowing his parents would react more violently to his poor behavior than to his brother's, he turned his back on Billy. "I'll be in the barn," he mumbled to his mother, and then headed there.

* * *

"I know he's not quick to violence, Bill, but that was inexcusable!"

"If you ask me," said Bill in an even tone, "Billy had it comin'. We've always taught the kids respect; he knows better than to say something like that."

Standing in their kitchen after having rendered first aid to Billy's mouth, Jillian narrowed her eyes at her husband. "He wasn't expecting to get hit by his own brother for sayin' it."

"He's been needlin' Nick from the day he laid eyes on that girl. We all know she ain't legal, but that don't make it right."

Jillian became unsettled. "Do you think . . ." She turned toward Bill, her eyes wide. "Do you think Billy notified INS about Maribel's family?"

"I think Nick thinks he did. Probably why he got clocked." Bill thought a moment. "I'm sorry he chose to express his frustration that way, but Nicky's been a tickin' time bomb with his girl leavin' and frankly, Jilly . . . better here, better his brother, than someone at school or one of his teammates."

Jillian crossed her arms. "You're _glad_ he hit his brother?" Her disapproval was clear.

"I ain't sayin' that, woman. You know we live in a bubble."

She turned away. "I know," she drawled quietly, looking out the kitchen window. "It's just . . . Nicky's always been the good one. I was so afraid that he'd be the one to turn into a hellion and get into any kind of trouble that tapped him on the shoulder . . . but he's so _good_. Why'd he have to strike his own kin?"

Bill put his hand on her shoulder. "The boy's hurtin' somethin' fierce, Jilly." When Jillian turned her head slightly, indicating that she was listening, he continued. "He blames himself for what he thinks Billy did. He's angry and he feels guilty. He's punishing himself – I ain't never seen that damn barn so clean."

Jillian turned to her husband with a crooked smile. "Do you mean to tell me you're actually _identifying _with Nick?"

Bill smirked; Jillian had repeated the phrase "You just don't understand him" so many times he swore he heard it in his sleep sometimes. "I _don't _understand him," he admitted. "Nicky just wears his emotions on his sleeve and that ain't how I am. But by God, Jillian, I know that look. He hurts, and as much as I don't like how hard he fell for that girl, he's my son and I don't like to see him hurt."

"You gonna go talk to him?"

"Yeah, I'll talk to him. I'll go easy, Jilly." He kissed her cheek as she nodded approvingly, and then he left the kitchen.

* * *

"Those saddles don't need to be spit-shined, Pancho."

Nick stopped the incessant buffing of his mother's favorite saddle and turned slightly toward his father. "You want me to clean out the gutters?"

"I want you to stop punishing yourself."

Nick turned back to the saddle. "I did wrong," he replied. "I shouldn'a hit Billy and I shouldn'a cussed in front of Mom."

Bill smirked as he sat down on a bale of hay. "Shouldn'a hit Billy in front of your mama, but either way, Billy's got no place sayin' that word," he said. "Specially about someone he knows his brother cares about."

Nick turned slowly toward his father. He knew better than to think the judge was taking sides – particularly his – but at least he wasn't in a fuss. "So . . . me 'n Billy are even up."

Bill nodded. "We'll call it that. I reckon your hand hurts as much as his face does."

Nick shook his head. "It ain't feelin' too good," he admitted. "I'll apologize to Mom after I shower."

Again, Bill nodded. "That'll do, Pancho. Try to let the rest of it go."

Nick looked away, shifting uncomfortably for a moment. As much as he knew his father loved him, he wasn't used to having his support in something as emotional as his loss of Maribel. He drew a deep breath and let it out, but couldn't stop the tears from filling his eyes. "I love her, Cisco."

"I know, Pancho. I know."

"I'm never gonna see her again." He sat down heavily next to Bill on the hay. "I mean, even if she'd somehow find her way back . . . she ain't gonna give up her family. Her father's gonna want her to marry a Mexican anyway."

Bill straightened. He knew how his son thought sometimes and this statement alarmed him. "You ask her to marry you, Pancho?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. I said we were both eighteen . . . we could go to Las Vegas, she could stay with Audra 'til I graduated. I said no one had to know." He laughed bitterly. "I got no idea what I'd 'a done if she'd 'a said yes."

"She said no?"

"She said you'd kill me."

"She's right."

"She said her father would kill her." Nick got quiet and then turned to his equally quiet father. "He's a good man, I swear it, Cisco, but he's proud." He turned away.

"Are you afraid for her?" asked Bill, who differed on Nick's opinion that Ramon Serrano was a good man.

Nick looked away. "Not because of him. He loves his family . . . he loves Maribel." He paused to swallow. "He just doesn't like me."

"Something's obviously wrong with him, then," said Bill. Nick smirked at the round-about compliment. "He doesn't like you because of me. Right?"

Nick sighed. At first, Ramon didn't like him because he wasn't Mexican. Once he discovered that the boy who was dating his daughter had parents in the legal profession, his dislike turned to what Nick perceived as hatred. "Yeah. But that'll go on my whole life – I'm used to it by now." Nick spit into the sawdust, just because he could. "It's old, but it ain't goin' away."

Bill let out a breath. "You've been labeled your whole life."

Nick nodded. "Yeah. 'Jill's son' or 'the judge's son.' And 'little brother' – Billy's little brother, Audra's little brother, Kathleen's little brother. Then, in baseball . . . it just got worse."

"You just got called Stokes."

Nick simply nodded.

"I know it ain't easy, son."

"I love my family," replied Nick. "I'm proud of what you and Mom do."

"We're proud of you, too, Pancho. I know I don't understand you most times, but you're a good boy."

Nick nodded in acknowledgement, and then said, "I know you think this is all for the best, Cisco, and maybe you're right, but right now . . . it's hell."

Bill nodded and thumped his son's back. "You focus on school, and your sports, and your chores. It'll help."

"Yes, sir."

"Barn looks good, son."

"Thank you, sir."

"You let me know if you need somethin'."

_I need Maribel_, he thought, but only nodded.

"Steer clear of Billy."

The edge of Nick's mouth pulled upward slowly in a smirk. His eyebrow curled. His hand hurt, but God it was sweet. "I leave a mark?" he asked.

Bill nodded and rose. "I reckon you did," he replied. "A good'n." As he left the barn, Nick heard the only reproach he'd ever hear from his father on the subject. "Don't let it happen again."

* * *

(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson


	5. Chapter 5

Hi folks - sorry for the long delay. This is a short update, but I'll have more soon.

Thanks to my Spanish betas - I can't remember your ff names just now :( but you are wonderful!

* * *

_September 1997_

After Nick finished his tale and both young men finished their coffee, they walked back upstairs to the telemetry unit to check on Maribel. Outside her room, Warrick paused.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked.

Nick thought a moment before he responded. "I probably shouldn't go in there until you're done questioning her," he replied. "I guess . . . technically, I shouldn't go in at all."

"Good thing for you I ain't so technical," said Warrick before he pushed his way through the door, leaving Nick in the hall. Brass wouldn't be happy if he ever found out, but then Warrick had become accustomed to filling his superior officers in on exactly what they needed to know, nothing more. It was a handy skill to have.

"Good morning," he began, and the petite woman in the bed opened her eyes. "I'm Warrick Brown from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I'm here to ask you some questions about your traveling companion."

Her voice was weak when she replied. "No hablo."

Warrick looked in his folder for the mug shot of the truck's driver and held it up so she could see. "This guy – remember him?"

"No hablo Ingles," she insisted.

"He's here illegally," continued Warrick stubbornly. "You both are. Can you tell me his name?" He fluttered the photo again.

In response, Maribel snatched the photo and tore it in half with a glare. "No. Hablo. Ingles."

Warrick sighed. Despite himself, he wished Brass were there. He wasn't fond of games and wasn't good at finessing information out people who were being coy. "All right, look. I know you speak English and I know your name ain't Eva Ramirez. You want immigration to go easy on you, you go easy on me." He removed the torn photo from her bedside table, where she'd dropped it. She held her glare. "This man is wanted in the investigation of six deaths in Texas. If you know somethin', you better get it out now."

Maribel's harsh look didn't budge. "I never met this man before," she half-whispered. "Am I under arrest?"

"If you're not guilty of anything you'll be released to immigration," replied Warrick.

"I'm not guilty of anything." Maribel closed her eyes.

"Can I get a name?" asked Warrick, ready to concede that she wasn't talking.

"I didn' ask," she replied. "I was walking, he came along. He offer me a ride. Then I don' have to walk anymore." She settled into the bed and Warrick knew she was done with him.

He tried again anyway. "Where did he pick you up?"

Maribel sighed, but said nothing.

"You know you're under police surveillance, right?"

"I don' care."

"All right. You don't want to talk to me, that's fine. I got someone here who wants to talk to you."

Swiftly, Warrick sauntered out of the little room and into the hallway. He couldn't hide his annoyance, but he knew that the man from Texas was agitated. Hoping that fact might play to his advantage in the long run, he gestured to the closed door. "She's all yours," he said.

Nick nodded and looked at the door. "All right."

* * *

When Nick entered Maribel's room she was sitting up with her eyes closed. The initial shock of seeing her again had worn off, and he was coming to terms with the fact that nine years had passed since they'd seen each other; he didn't look the same and shouldn't expect her to, either. He approached slowly and sat on the edge of her bed. "Ábra los ojos, Maribel."

Slowly, she did as he asked. She looked at him for a long minute and then closed her eyes again.

"Maribel," he repeated gently.

"Esto es un sueño," she said.

"No soy un sueño, Maribel. Soy muy verdadero."

Again, she opened her eyes. "Nicolas?"

His eyes filled. "Sí, Maribel." He picked up her hand and squeezed it.

She turned her head to look at him. "Nicolas . . . if you are here, then I am dead."

"You're alive, Mari. You're at the hospital in Las Vegas."

Tears started rolling down her cheeks. "Why are you here, Nicolas?" she asked.

"I work for the crime lab in Dallas," he replied. "I'm investigating the man you were driving with."

She was quiet, and her face remained oddly still. "The man I was driving with?"

He nodded and had to stop himself from asking what his name was.

"Have you spoken to him?"

He shook his head. "No, I haven't been to question him. Las Vegas police are holding him."

"Oh." She nodded and swallowed, then rested her head on the pillow.

He waited for her to say something more, but she didn't. Frustrated and full of questions, he said impulsively, "I looked for you. I went to Houston; I went to LA. Mari, why didn't you write to me?"

She searched his face a moment before she replied. "What was I supposed to write?"

His brow creased. "You were supposed to tell me where you were," he said, inching closer. "You were supposed to tell me that you were safe. The last time I saw you, you were scared and all I wanted to know was where you were. That's all I cared about, so that I could find you."

To his surprise, Maribel chuckled slightly. "You always paint such a pretty, simple picture," she replied gently. "Things never work out the way you describe – it's why Papí always say you lead a charmed life."

He paused a little, confused by her response. "Mari . . . are you angry at me?"

She closed her eyes again. "I don' know, Nicolas."

For a moment, Nick said nothing more. She hadn't removed her cool hand from his, and as a reflex, he stroked the back of it. "I missed you, Mari."

She opened her eyes and looked at Nick a long moment. "I missed you too." She swallowed and sighed softly, then closed her eyes.

Nick looked her over a little more closely. No doubt about it, she wasn't well. He wrapped his other hand around hers and squeezed, trying to put aside his confusion for the moment. "Are you sick?"

"I'll be fine," she replied dismissively.

"I don't believe you."

She opened her eyes and smiled a little. "Why not?" she asked.

"You're on morphine."

She shrugged a little.

He pointed to one of the IV bags hanging above her head. "That's an antibiotic."

"Precautionary only," she said.

"Bullshit."

She scowled, and sat up. "You have a dirty mouth."

"You're lying," he countered. "You're not well."

Her eyes flashed. "And what does it matter to you?" she spat. "No matter what happen to me you don' change. You always want to be a cop – well, now you are. I'm sure you have the pretty house and pretty wife to match. My family is the same – still not legal, still sending money every month to Grandma so she can eat and pay her rent and nothing else. Papí, Mamí, Carlos – they all work doing jobs white boys like you are too good for! My sisters-" She stopped short; the sob that she had desperately been fighting escaped and she looked away as the tears descended from her big dark eyes.

Nick felt his whole body go cold. Of all the ways he had dreamed or hoped his reunion with Maribel would happen, being cussed out by a once-gentle young woman didn't even enter his head.

"Maribel."

His voice had darkened considerably. When she looked up she expected the anger she saw in his face.

He held up his left hand and wiggled the ringless fourth finger. "Recuerda lo que te prometí." He rose then, and let go of her hand, leaving no comforting squeeze or stroke. "I don't say things I don't mean and I keep my promises. Nine years, Maribel." Without another word, he left the room, just as confused as when he had entered it.

* * *

(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks again to ilovesara801 and elianaTCB for their Spanish beta work, and also for help with Mexican culture!**

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* * *

_

Summer 1986

"If I ever get fat, it's gonna be off of your mom's cake."

Nick was finishing his fourth piece of the night sitting on a bench outside of Maribel's church. He was dressed in a tuxedo, tie undone, on a warm summer night.

She was dressed in an ice blue ball gown replete with ruffles, a crown of daisies on her head. "She make extra for you," she replied smilingly. She moved off of the tree she was leaning against and sat next to Nick. "It was a perfect day."

"It was the best Quinceañera I've ever been to," said Nick, setting his plate down and wrapping his arm around her.

Maribel shoved him gently. "The only one." She smiled up at him as he chuckled, and then rested her head on his shoulder.

"Happy fifteenth birthday," he said affectionately.

"Thank you," she replied, leaning into him. "You put up with a lot to be here."

He shook his head. "No – I like your family, Mari."

"I know you like Carlos and my sisters," she said. "I know you like Mamí, too – they're very kind to you. But Papí. . . ." She trailed off, unable to voice her frustration with her father.

"You know, Maribel . . . I like Papí." She looked up at him, her round chocolate eyes dusted with ice blue shadow. "Really, I do. I'm sorry he doesn't like me."

She smiled, a little sadly. "I wish he did."

"Me too. But he let me dance with you," said Nick, kissing her on the head. He remembered the conversation with the eldest Serrano, which had happened about a month ago.

Nick had been filthy, sweating from head to toe and standing in the barn at his parents' ranch. He'd been working all day and was exhausted. The grunt work on the ranch was Nick's only job – he did it because he lived there and needed to contribute, but also because his parents paid him. His allowance, considerable compared to that of his peers, was still less than the cost of hiring another ranch hand.

It was just past two o'clock, sweltering in the barn. Over the radio he had on, he faintly heard a voice coming from just outside. He turned it down and walked curiously to the big open doors, and was surprised to see Ramón Serrano, Maribel's father, standing there, sipping a tall, cold glass of lemonade that he assumed Anamaria had given him when he came to the door.

"Hola, Señor," he said quietly.

"Hello, Nick," replied Ramón with a pleasant smile and watched Nick's brow crease further.

"¿Esta todo bien?" he asked.

"Yes, Maribel is fine," said Ramón, perfectly composed.

"You speak English." This was a statement and not a question and Nick could not have been more astonished. The first time he met Maribel's family, several months ago now, she'd warned him that her father would likely take no notice of Nick unless he failed to speak to Ramón in his native tongue.

"Yes, I speak English," he replied.

"You speak it really well."

Ramón chuckled. "Why should that surprise you?"

Nick shrugged and struggled for an answer. "Well . . . your wife and kids don't speak that well."

"I learned English when I was a boy," he replied. "About your age. I do, of course, prefer my native language . . . but we're in your house, so to speak. So we'll speak English."

"Okay." Nick only had more questions for Maribel's father now, but decided not to press on with them at just that moment. It was probably safer to ask Maribel, who understood his inquisitive ways. "So. . . . What can I do for you, Señor Serrano?"

"I came to talk to you about Maribel's Quinceañera," said Ramón, making a point of sipping on the lemonade.

Nick, annoyed, raised his left eyebrow. "Yes?"

"You have hermanas, Nicolas?" asked Ramón.

He nodded and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Yes, sir. Five of 'em."

Ramón nodded and looked around the barn. "I imagine they were presented at a debutante ball?"

"They weren't, actually," replied Nick. "My dad never liked that. Said there were too many similarities to showin' cattle at auction."

To his surprise, Ramón laughed. "You know, if I had the right paperwork I think your father and I would get along."

Nick smiled. "He could help you get the paperwork."

"No," said Ramón sharply. "I don't take anything I can't get on my own. Now listen." He approached Nick, taking another sip of the lemonade that Nick wished he didn't wish to have for himself. "Maribel wants you to be her chambelán de honor at her Quinceañera. She's begged me for the last two months."

"I know," replied Nick. "She's complained about you for the past two months."

"I don't like that she likes you so much. I don't like that she's dating a white boy." This he said with the same tone and scowl that he usually used when he called Nick _gringo_, so Nick knew it meant the same. Ramón looked away and shook his head. "But she is my little girl and I want to give her what she wants. As much as I don't like you, if you're not there she will think about you all day long and be angry with me over it." He turned back to Nick. "She works hard, she prays hard, she gives her sisters a good role model, and she gives Carlos someone to respect. So, for a day, I'll give you a reprieve from being a white boy. From being a judge's son. You put on a suit and you come celebrate with us – for a day."

"You'll let me come?"

Ramón nodded. "Yes. You don't get to be her chambelán – her cousin will do."

"But I can dance with her."

"Yes, you can dance with her."

Nick grinned. "Good enough!"

"After that day, Nicolas," Ramón held up a finger, "I don't have to pretend I like you."

"Whatever makes Maribel happy," was all Nick had to say in reply.

A month later, following the mass that was held in honor of Maribel's fifteenth birthday, she was dancing the waltz with Ramón after he ceremoniously changed her flat slippers for pair of elegant silver heels. One moment she felt just like a princess with every eye on her, her smiling father leading her around the makeshift dance floor in the church's reception hall. Then he stopped suddenly and smiled at her, a little melancholy. She was expecting someone to cut in, but she thought it would be her cousin José. She cried when her father placed her gloved hand in Nick's.

It was at that moment that Maribel truly felt the meaning of her Quinceañera. As the oldest child, there was a lot that was expected of her and she very willingly did whatever her family needed her to do. Turning fifteen meant a lot of things for a young Latina and her father was recognizing one of the most significant for Maribel – the fact that she could now make her own choices. Ramón didn't like Nick; he would have liked far better for Maribel to date a young Mexican gentleman, but if Nick was her choice, he wouldn't stand in the way of her happiness.

"I was very surprised," she replied, stroking Nick's hand as she thought back on the moment.

"I'll find a way to get along with Ramón, I promise."

"He stubborn like a burro," she replied, and then giggled. "Like someone else I know."

Nick chuckled low as he pulled her in close, smelling her hair as he nuzzled her ear. "He gave in a little," he murmured.

She turned her head and their noses touched. Her chin tilted up and he kissed her soft, pink-glossed lips. He'd just begun to deepen the kiss when he heard an astonished, prim voice.

"I beg your pardon – that is _not_ appropriate here!"

Nick and Maribel both turned their heads sharply to see an older woman walking her teacup poodle, her face somewhat hidden in the shadow of the street lamp.

"Sorry," mumbled both Nick and Maribel, a little embarrassed at being caught.

"Oh – who is that?" The lady shuffled forward, and squinted a little bit. "It's little Nicky Stokes! I didn't recognize you!"

Nick, however, recognized the woman as the nosy secretary from school. "Hello, Mrs. Peterfeso," he said politely.

She twittered a little, covering her mouth "Hello there . . . oh, I couldn't quite see you . . . this dim light . . . your dark hair, you know. How are you, dear?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Peterfeso," he replied politely. "How are you, ma'am?"

"Oh, I'm well. Just out walking my little dog. It's a very nice evening – a bit warm, but at my age one mustn't sit about too long, you know."

"Of course," said Nick, annoyed that she hadn't yet acknowledged Maribel.

"I must say, you're dressed up very fine tonight! What in the world are you doing in this neighborhood?"

"It's my Quinceañera," said Maribel, holding tight to Nick's hand.

Mrs. Peterfeso turned an imposed-upon look toward Maribel and smiled. "I'm sorry, dear – I don't speak Spanish. What did she say?"

"You know Maribel, Mrs. Peterfeso. She said it's her birthday," said Nick. "Her fifteenth birthday – her Quinceañera."

"Oh," replied the old woman. "I see. Sounds like quite a party."

Maribel turned her head to roll her eyes. It was more than a party, but Mrs. Peterfeso likely neither cared, nor would she understand.

"It's been a very special day," replied Nick for her.

Mrs. Peterfeso smiled a squinty smile. "That's nice. Well, I need to get my little Princess home. It was nice to see you."

"Good night, ma'am," called Nick, returning the wave she tossed at the young couple.

When she was out of earshot, Maribel elbowed Nick in the ribs.

"Ouch!" he cried, clutching his side. "What was that for?"

"For being nice to that old bat," she snapped.

He laughed a little. "I'm sorry, Mari – she's just an old lady."

"She's nosy – always in Carlos' business at school, asking him for all kind of things she doesn' need, always complaining at the church for how loud Mass is – Papí call her _malvavisco_."

Nick scrunched his eyebrows together. "What's that mean?"

"Marshmallow," she replied, smiling and turning toward him again. "White and soft but no substance."

Nick laughed at the mischievous glint in her eye and pulled her close once again. By the time her little sister Juanita ran out to retrieve them, the doll that Maribel had given her tucked securely under her arm, there was no more pretty pink gloss left on Maribel's lips.

* * *

(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson

Thank you so much for your reviews! I'm glad you are still enjoying this even after my unplanned hiatus :)


	7. Chapter 7

_September 1997_

Warrick was relaxed in a waiting-room chair, disinterestedly flipping through the People magazine that covered Princess Diana's funeral. He shook his head. His grandmother had told him just last week that it was strange that she should identify at all with British royalty, but her heart hurt for any woman who lost her child. Warrick didn't argue with her – he knew enough not to do that when she spoke about losing her son, Warrick's father – but thought that the family was probably better left alone. Instead, there was a whole magazine dedicated to their grief.

He closed the tattered periodical and set it aside when his new Texan friend came flying out of the hospital room. Warrick watched him walk down the hall, pause to compose himself, and then walk back.

"Didn't go well, huh?"

"No," replied Nick.

Warrick nodded. "She gonna crack anytime soon?"

"No."

Again, Warrick nodded. "Okay. Well, it's about supper time. You wanna catch a bite and then go back to the lab? I just talked to Brass; they're still holdin' the driver 'cause he won't talk."

"Yeah." Nick nodded, turning toward Warrick. "Yeah, that sounds good. If you could just maybe give me an idea about where to go before you head home-"

"Ain't no one at my place but my ghost," said Warrick, rising. "C'mon, I'll show you 'round Vegas. Let me just call the lab and have someone bring me my Tahoe."

Nick nodded, grateful for the momentary distraction that Warrick had offered. He listened while Warrick talked to someone named Catherine, thanked her, and put his phone away. "She'll have a uni out front in a few with it. Let's go."

They headed down the hallway toward the elevator. "So, you been in Las Vegas long?" Nick asked.

"Born and raised," was Warrick's reply.

"Nice place to grow up?"

Warrick chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah. . . . not really. Vegas is like a flashy small town. Tourism's our only industry, so most of the jobs are service-related. Sometimes those pay well – most of them, not so much."

"Yeah? What do your folks do?"

Warrick turned toward Nick, taken off-guard by his question. Before he could answer he bumped into a nurse walking the opposite direction, and dropped the case folder. The contents scattered all over the floor.

"Oh – sorry," he muttered. The nurse scowled and turned back to her path. He made a face just like hers and hollered, "I'm fine, thanks!"

Nick chuckled and bent down to pick up the documents, then handed them to Warrick. Noticing a half-sheet that had flipped clean across the hall, he rose to retrieve it.

He noticed that it was photo, torn at the bottom, and turned it over once he had picked it up. "Who ripped your ph…" He trailed off, and froze.

Across the hall, Warrick looked up from re-arranging the contents of the folder. "Oh – yeah, your lady ripped my picture. That's the driver."

His face disbelieving, he held the torn photo up. "_This _is the driver?"

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. Did you date him too?" he asked with a smirk.

"This is her _dad_," snapped Nick, shaking the paper.

Warrick's face fell. "Oh."

"What did she say when you questioned her?"

The tall Vegas native shook his head. "She said he picked her up somewhere because she was walking, but wouldn't say where. Said she didn't know him, said he didn't give a name and she didn't ask."

"I got a name – it's Ramón Serrano." The color was high in Nick's cheeks as he crossed the hall and handed the photo back to Warrick.

"All right – let's go back to the lab, huh?" suggested Warrick as he tucked the picture away. "Looks like we're gettin' somewhere."

* * *

Questions swarmed through Nick's head as they drove the short distance back to LVPD. He knew he'd need to focus those questions in order to get them answered, but at the moment, it was proving difficult since the things he wanted most to know about related to Maribel and her health. But those things had to be set aside. He'd been sent to Las Vegas to solve a case, and he'd better get it done.

At the lab he collected his own case folder, which contained precious little. He had to know what Ramón, who he'd always believed was a good man, had to do with innocent people dying in the back of a filthy produce truck.

As he reviewed his evidence, trying to formulate what he'd ask in interrogation, Captain Brass came into the room. "Hey there, Tex," he said chirpily. "I hear you got a lead."

Nick straightened his back. "Yes, sir," he said. "I have a name for the driver."

Brass poured himself some coffee. "Good for you. Warrick playin' nice?"

"Yes, sir," replied Nick. "He's been very helpful."

"That's good. You know how we can be in this business . . . a little territorial."

Nick chuckled and looked up at Brass. "Yeah, I know that's right. Hey, Captain," he said as he considered his paltry evidence folder. "Do you think you could help me get a warrant?"

"Hey, warrants are my specialty," replied Brass. "What do you need, kid?"

"I need the driver's DNA. I got prints, but I don't think that'll be enough."

"What do you have to compare it against?" asked Brass, sipping coffee.

"We found some food scraps. It would tell me if there was anyone else in the truck."

Brass nodded. "Sure, no problem. I'll give Fischer a call and let you know when it's a go."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, and Brass was off.

Nick sighed as he sat back and covered his face with his hands. He wasn't looking forward to having to interrogate Maribel's father. He wasn't looking forward to having to look at Maribel's father at all; he was still upset with the way his reunion with Maribel had gone. But he had to know what the connection was and why Ramón's prints were in the truck. Nick was hoping the DNA evidence would clear him, or at least prove that he wasn't the only one involved.

Before he knew it, he was staring at the back of Ramón's head through the clean glass window in the door of an interrogation room. Opposite Ramón was the long one-way window, and he knew that on the other side of that was Captain Brass. _It's not about Maribel,_ he told himself. _Focus_.

Warrick sidled up to him. "You got this?"

"Yeah." Nick took a deep breath, tucked his chin down, and entered the room, closing the door behind him.

Ramón was staring at the tabletop. Nick set his shiny kit on the table and laid his accent on thick as he began. "Howdy, sir." Ramón said nothing. "I'm gonna ask you some questions, all right?" Again, Ramón said nothing. Nick kept his chin down and stayed behind Ramón, who didn't turn toward him.

Nick laid a photo on the table over Ramón's shoulder. "You remember this man?"

Ramón pushed the photo away.

"Okay. How 'bout this man?" Nick received the same reaction. "This one?" Again, the photo was pushed away and Ramón didn't even grunt in acknowledgement.

In succession, Nick laid the other eight photos down on the table. "Any of these folks, sir? Do you remember them?"

Ramón looked the opposite direction, shaking his head. Nick lifted his chin, set the folder down, and walked around to the opposite side of the table. He sat down and examined Ramón, who was still looking at the wall to his left. Nick adjusted the pitch and tone of his voice so that it was more natural.

"What about me? You remember me?"

Ramón's head swiveled forward, and he blinked slowly.

"The California ID you gave my colleagues says your name is Armando Márquez, but you and I both know that's not true."

Ramón's face and voice were both emotionless when he finally acknowledged the CSI. "Nicolas."

To irk him, Nick softened the Rs in his name. "Mr. Serrano."

The older man lifted his brow. "Your tongue is lazy."

The corner of Nick's mouth turned up in a smirk. "As I'm sure you're aware, sir, we're not here to talk about me or my tongue." Ramón said nothing, so Nick continued. "Mr. Serrano, my name is Nick Stokes-"

"I know who you are," snapped the older man in a tone that at one time, Nick would have been intimidated by.

He continued as if he had not been interrupted. "I'm a crime scene investigator with the Dallas Police Department."

"Where is Maribel?" he asked.

"She's in the hospital, but I'm not here to talk about her, either." He moved to fan the photos out on the table. "You like games, Ramón?"

He shrugged. "Sure, I like games."

Nick nodded. "I thought so. You been playin' games with my new friends here Vegas. The fake ID game, the I-don't-speak-English game. . . . So I have a new game for you to play. There are eleven Mexican citizens here. Six of them are dead. You win if you can guess which ones are which."

"And what do _you_ care about Mexican citizens?" asked Ramón, refusing to look at the photos.

"I almost married one once," replied Nick nonchalantly.

Ramón rolled his eyes. "That would never have happened," he replied. "You were a spoiled little boy who dated my daughter to make his _honorable_ father angry."

"Judge Stokes?" asked Nick, scrunching his brow. "Nah. He loved Maribel. Let's not forget he offered to help you out. But all that's immaterial, Mr. Serrano – so let's get back to my eleven friends here."

Ramón scowled at him, but said nothing.

Nick turned to his folder and continued. "In June, the Texas Highway Patrol found an abandoned truck off 342, just outside of Red Oak. When they opened it up they found eleven people inside – these eleven people. Four of them had already died of heat exhaustion and two more died in the hospital." Nick referred to the photos again, and selected the six who had passed away, again laying them all out in front of Ramón. "When I processed the cab of the truck I found a lot of fingerprints. Turns out, they're yours."

"I drive trucks for a living," he replied. "I may have driven that particular truck at one point; that doesn't mean I was driving it in June."

"There were a lot of fingerprints, Mr. Serrano. All of 'em are yours."

"Maybe somebody wore gloves."

"That's an interesting theory," replied Nick. "But I don't think so. I also found some food scraps, and a few minutes ago I found a warrant for your DNA. Now we could avoid a lot of expense and trouble if you just want to tell me what you were doing driving a truck with people locked in the back of it."

Ramón stared hard at him. "You need to talk to Maribel."

Nick shook his head and his finger at him. "Maribel's got nothin' to do with this," he said.

"You still hear only what you want to hear," snapped Ramón.

Nick turned to his kit to remove a buccal swab and gloves. "Look," he said, snapping on the latex, "Either open your mouth to talk, or open your mouth so I can do my job. Either way – I don't care. The DNA will tell me what I need to know."

Glaring, Ramón opened his mouth. Nick swabbed.

"Thank you, Mr. Serrano." Clicking the protective cover on the swab shut, he closed up his kit and left the room.

* * *

Thanks so much for your reviews! They really brighten an author's day!

(c) 2010 J. H. Thompson


	8. Chapter 8

I'm so sorry for the horrifically long delay - I hope you enjoy the following!

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_September 1997_

"So what's his story? Your friend, Ramón. Why didn't he come into the country legally?"

Nick and Warrick were sitting at a café sipping coffee and waiting for their dinner order. Once Nick had collected the DNA evidence he needed there was little to do but wait for Greg, the lab tech in Las Vegas, to process the sample.

Nick sighed. "He tried. He couldn't get a sponsor. . . . Even if he could have, it would've been years before he'd have gotten a green card." Nick stirred his coffee, thinking about Maribel, and Ramón's DNA. "He grew up working on a ranch. Real smart. . . . Taught himself English because he knew he wanted to come to America."

"I don't understand why he couldn't have waited."

Nick smirked. "Well, he did wait. He and his wife stayed in Mexico, trying to save up enough money to make the trip. Ramón and Maria – his wife – they wanted a family . . . but where Ramón grew up, kids didn't go to school, they worked. He wanted his kids to be educated; wanted them to have a better life."

"The American dream," said Warrick.

"Right. When their youngest child was born, he realized Maribel was almost eight and hadn't been to school, just like him. So, with the little they had, they came to Texas. He found work pretty quickly. They were there for almost ten years before they had to leave."

Warrick sipped his coffee. "And you really have been lookin' for her ever since?"

Nick nodded as the waitress set his sandwich down in front of him. "Sometimes more earnestly than others. I was easily distracted in college." Nick allowed a smirk.

Warrick chuckled. "Yeah, me too," he replied.

"The summer after I graduated from high school – that's what I did. I looked everywhere I could think of . . . I even spent about a week in August knocking on every door in her old neighborhood because I had this crazy idea that maybe she'd come back. And then college started. . . . You know how the first couple of months of college are. I didn't know which end was up most of the time." He paused a moment, looking out the window to his left. "I think by that point, I had lost hope – all my leads went nowhere and I didn't know what to do next." With a smile, he turned back to Warrick. "I guess that was my first cold case; I just didn't realize it at the time."

Warrick smiled and turned to his dinner. "Hopefully Greg will have your results by the time we get back to the lab." His green eyes lifted and focused just past Nick's shoulder, and then lit with recognition. "And speaking of distractions, here comes one."

A slender woman, her strawberry blonde hair clipped to just below her ears, sauntered up to their table. "Hey Warrick," she greeted, and then noticed Nick. Her eyebrows raised, she looked him over, which made him slightly uncomfortable. "Who's your friend?"

Warrick looked at the reddened Nick and grinned. "This is Nick Stokes, from the Dallas crime lab. Nick, this is Catherine Willows; she's one of our senior CSIs."

Nick offered his hand and approved of Catherine's healthy grip. "Nice to meet you, ma'am," he said.

"_Ma'am_," repeated Catherine with a smile. "I like that. Nice to meet you, too, Stokes. May I?" She gestured to the bench where he was sitting, and he graciously slid over to make room for her, dragging his sandwich with him. She settled next to him and immediately engaged Warrick in a conversation about one of the cases they were working together.

As they spoke, Nick's mind wandered. He thought about Maribel and inexplicably of the barn on his parents' ranch where he spent most of his time with her. They went out with big groups of friends, like all teenagers, and enjoyed each others' families, but most precious, to both of them, was their privacy, and that was mostly taken in the barn. Nicks' parents kept an eye on their activities, but didn't complain much because it meant that Nick was keeping the barn particularly clean.

Among Nick's most cherished memories of Maribel and the barn included an unseasonably cold day in May, when he was seventeen. It was the day the Stokeses had buried their patriarch, William Jr. – Nick's grandfather. He was particularly fond of Grandpa Stokes, and the feeling was mutual. His passing hadn't come as much of a surprise, but Nick had still been devastated. Maribel attended the funeral at Nick's side and afterward, silently, sat wrapped in his arms for hours in the hay loft.

When it was time to take her home, he finally spoke. "I love you, Maribel."

It was the first time he'd said it. She cried. "I love you, too."

"What do you want to do with your life?" he had asked.

Slightly confused, but not wanting to ruffle his feathers, she simply replied. "I want to get married and have children. That's all I ever wanted."

He nodded. "Then that's what we'll do," he said, matter-of-factly.

She said nothing, but smiled as more tears slid down her cheeks, and then kissed him. He took her home. It was neither their first nor would it be their last conversation about marriage, but it was that silent day in the barn that made Nick realize how deeply he felt for her.

_Maybe too deeply,_ he thought now, looking out at the busy Las Vegas street. _Too much, too young._

When their lunch was finished, Nick asked if Warrick thought he'd be able to talk to Ramón. Warrick, as obliging as ever, drove to PD, where he found an officer named Mitchell. Once Nick, with Warrick's help, explained who he was and flashed his Dallas ID, the officer led them to where Ramón was being held.

"Do I need to stick around for this?" asked Mitchell.

Nick looked at Warrick, and then turned to the officer. "Up to you, I guess. He may or may not speak English."

"You need an interpreter?" asked Warrick.

"I can find Vega," offered Mitchell. "It'd be quicker than waiting on an interpreter at this time of night."

"It's all right – I speak," replied Nick.

Warrick's eyebrows shot up, and he looked vaguely impressed. "That's handy."

Nick shrugged. "Usually."

"All right. I'll be in the lab if you need me."

When both men had turned their backs, Nick turned toward Ramón. "Hola, Señor Serrano."

Ramón hoisted an eyebrow. "You've found your Spanish tongue."

"You remembered that you speak English. We're even."

Ramón glared a little, and then cocked his head. "What do you want?"

"I want to know what's wrong with Maribel."

Ramón paused before he answered. "She liked you," he spat. "That's what's wrong with her. I took her to a church full of good Catholic boys, and instead she picked you to like."

"Maribel loves me," replied Nick coolly. "Or she did. . . . Back then."

Ramón looked away and shook his head. Then he rose and stood toe-to-toe with Nick. "She takes that Godforsaken jersey with her wherever she goes. She's like a little girl attached to a blanket."

Nick paused. The older man's voice was bitter, but there was hope for Nick in his words. "What's wrong with her?" he asked.

Ramón shook his head, his eyes narrowed. "Doesn't matter. You can't save her," he sneered. "You can't fix her."

"Is she dying?" asked Nick, stricken. When Ramón didn't answer immediately, Nick grabbed hold of the iron bars that separated them and barked, "What's _wrong_ with her, damn it? Tell me!"

Ramón stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. "She has lupus," he said softly. "She's had it a long time. . . . I suspect before we left Texas."

Nick let go of the iron bars and stepped back. "But . . . there's no . . . there's. . . ."

Ramón nodded slowly. "There's no cure. She said goodbye to the family when we left Los Angeles. She wanted to go for one more drive . . . to go back to Texas. She had things to do there."

Nick stared, unseeing, at the wall behind Ramón. "She won't make it."

"No. . . . She won't. I got pulled over because I was speeding, trying to get to the hospital. I thought maybe they could make her well enough to finish the trip."

Nick slumped against the wall and shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. "She can't die." There was so much they were supposed to do together; so much they'd promised each other. "She's too young. . . . She isn't any older than me."

"Nobody knows that better than I do," replied Ramón, and in his voice Nick could hear the sorrow. Ramón stepped closer to the iron bars again, leaning as close as he could. He hesitated a moment before he said, "She's all alone, Nicolas."

Nick looked up, slightly dazed. "She's . . . she doesn't want to see me. She's angry . . . she's angry that I didn't . . . couldn't find her."

"It would have made no difference," replied Ramón. "God will call her home soon. She's all alone."

"Why didn't she write to me?" he pleaded, looking up at Ramón.

He shook his head. "That is a question only she can answer. I suspect she didn't because she knew she was sick. She thought she was a burden to us."

Nick let out a frustrated huff and lifted his chin. "She's as stubborn as you are."

"Yes," agreed the older man. "And can you imagine being as young and independent as Maribel is and feeling like a burden? It's one thing for your parents to care for you. I don't think she would have been able to rely on you for everything – she would have felt useless. She wanted to be a wife and mother and it became clear very quickly that she wasn't going to be able to have children."

"But I didn't care about that," Nick said, looking up. "She knew I didn't. I didn't then and I don't now."

"You talked about having children at that age?" Ramón asked, the sharp edge back in his tone.

"Yeah." Nick closed his eyes and swallowed back the emotion that was creeping up his throat. Then he let out a sigh. "I'll go back," he said softly.

"To the hospital? You'll sit with Maribel?"

"As long as I can. As long as she'll let me." He opened his eyes and looked at Ramón. "I still have a job to do."

The older man nodded. "I know," he replied. "But Nicolas. . . . It doesn't change anything."

Nick stared straight at him. "You know what happened to those people."

Ramón chuckled a little. "You know, Nicolas – I don't like you. I never did. You're over-privileged and naïve. You're stubborn and you whine, and don't think for a second I don't know that you had your hands all over my little girl. But at least – if my beautiful Maribel had to fall in love with someone I don't like – at least you're not stupid." Ramón backed away from the bars and sat down.

"You know what, Ramón?"

The older man lifted his chin and raised his brows.

Nick rose and walked to the iron bars, meeting Ramón's eyes. "I always liked you." Then he turned and walked away.

Officer Mitchell gave him directions to the parking lot and he headed there, determined not to miss any more of Maribel's life, whether she hated him or not. He was just about to the exit when he heard quick footsteps behind him, and Warrick's voice call his name.

"Nick! Hold up!"

He paused to steel himself, to appear unruffled, before he turned around. "What's up?" he enquired nonchalantly.

"Greg's got your results," replied Warrick as he approached. He stopped about two feet from Nick and hesitated before he said, "Between you and me . . . I don't think you're gonna like 'em."

Nick hoisted an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be any different than anything else I've seen in this city," he said.

Warrick nodded sympathetically. "C'mon – DNA lab's this way." Nick followed, his head still spinning.

The spiky-haired DNA tech was bent over the table, filling out paperwork as he sang the song that blasted through earbuds into his skull. Thankfully, the sound was relatively muffled by the paper mask he wore.

Wondering if the mask were really necessary, Nick tried to get his attention. "Hey, Greg – you got my results?"

The head of dirty blonde spikes continued to bob up and down, but didn't acknowledge Nick. Luckily, Warrick was able to step in.

"Allow me," he offered, and reached out to smack the back of Greg's head.

"Ow!" Greg's gloved hand went up to cover the spot that Warrick had slapped, and then his eyes met Nick's. "Oh – hey, you're the Texan!" He stood and pulled the earbuds out, shifting his mask down.

"Yeah . . . what's with the mask?" asked Nick, his arms crossed. "We're not required to wear masks in the lab in Dallas."

"Oh – it's a uh, Grissom requirement."

Nick scowled. "What's a Grissom Requirement?"

"Gil Grissom is our shift lead," explained Warrick. "Grissom requires quiet, which isn't one of Greg's strengths."

Greg shrugged. "I like my music. Greg Sanders, by the way," he said, offering his gloved hand for Nick to shake.

Nick shook. "Nick Stokes. You uh, you got my results?"

"Yeah – I do, right here." Greg reached out for a folder to his left, and holding it close to himself, he continued. "Did you know this lab is the number two crime lab in the whole country?"

Short-fused to begin with, Nick tried not to glare. "No, sure didn't. Can I have the results please?"

Warrick rolled his eyes. "Greg, man, don't-"

"Just bear with me here," continued Greg, smirking. "The Dallas lab sent over the results of the testing they did on your samples. I think Dallas ranks in the low thirties."

"Interesting. Results?"

"The difference," rambled Greg, despite receiving glares from both Nick and Warrick, "the difference between number two and number thirty-whatever is right here in this folder." He tapped it smugly.

Nick leaned in, eyes narrowed, his natural nice-guy demeanor being eroded away by Greg's obliviousness. "What's in the folder, hotshot?"

"Well, the DNA sample from the suspect matches the food scraps that were tested in Dallas."

Nick's heart shot into his shoes and he wanted to sink with it. His eyes closing, his brain started to buzz again and he dropped his head and cursed.

"_Fuck_."

"But I read what Dallas sent over and found something they didn't report."

Nick's head snapped up again, and he reached out for the folder, which Greg was finally, mercifully offering.

But the results were anything but hopeful. Warrick read it over his shoulder.

"There's another sample there," continued Greg, unnecessarily. "Female – no match anywhere, but there are thirteen alleles in common, so-"

Nick had closed the folder and took off at a run. Warrick, unsure of what he'd do, followed, tossing a vague thank-you at a confused Greg.

Warrick found Nick in the evidence locker, pulling the meager box of evidence from his case off the shelf. "What are you doin', man?" he asked.

Nick didn't hear him. He scribbled on the sign-out sheet and proceeded to the evidence room, where he dumped the contents of the box onto the table. The jersey – worn, tattered, almost threadbare – screamed at him.

Warrick handed him a pair of gloves and he snapped them on, hands trembling. He spread the jersey out onto the table and lit the backlight. Ramón's voice found a place in the buzzing in his head, and he heard it unwillingly.

_She takes that godforsaken jersey with her wherever she goes._

For a moment, all he could do was stare at the jersey, remembering the moment in which he'd given it to her. He'd known then that he'd never see her again, and in a way, he'd been right. He'd never see her like that again – young, healthy, and despite everything, full of hope.

In the pile of evidence that had landed on the table when he dumped the box, he found the polyester fibers he'd found when he processed the cab of the truck. He rotated the scrap of fabric a few times, set it down, and then turned the jersey over. His own name stared him in the face. And then, underneath the fading E, he saw it – a hole the same size and shape as the fibers he'd collected.

He swallowed. "She was in the truck," he murmured. He didn't hear Warrick apologize and ask him what he wanted to do next. The buzzing in his head had taken over again.

He leaned over and smacked his forehead against the edge of the evidence table. _She was in the truck. She was in the truck. She was in the truck._

"Sonofabitch."


	9. Chapter 9

See? I haven't abandoned, and will finish, this story :) I'm sorry it's taken so long! As a reminder of how the last chapter ended...

_In the pile of evidence that had landed on the table when he dumped the box, he found the polyester fibers he'd found when he processed the cab of the truck. He rotated the scrap of fabric a few times, set it down, and then turned the jersey over. His own name stared him in the face. And then, underneath the fading E, he saw it – a hole the same size and shape as the fibers he'd collected._

_He swallowed. "She was in the truck," he murmured. He didn't hear Warrick apologize and ask him what he wanted to do next. The buzzing in his head had taken over again._

_He leaned over and smacked his forehead against the edge of the evidence table. She was in the truck. She was in the truck. She was in the truck._

_"Sonofabitch."_

* * *

Nick bent at the waist and pressed his forehead to the smooth plexiglass of the layout table. His arms covered the back of his head and neck, tornado-drill-style, as his thoughts raced and he struggled to focus on what his next step should be.

"Nick?"

He'd almost forgotten that Warrick was there. "Yeah." He stood up and put his hands on his hips, refusing to look at the jersey because whatever else the jersey meant, it sure as hell wasn't going to help him think. "Yeah – this is kind of a complication."

Warrick quirked an eyebrow at the obvious overstatement, but said nothing as he watched Nick. He seemed like a good enough guy, but Warrick wondered about Nick's ability to compartmentalize in a case like this. Even though it seemed like he was handling it all right, Warrick didn't know the Texan well enough to be able to make an accurate assessment of that.

"Yeah, I'll say. Listen, I need to wrap somethin' up here with Brass, but if you give me five minutes I can go with you to the hospital so you can talk to her."

"You don't have to do that. I can handle this." Nick's tone was leaden and almost defensive. "Like my captain says – not your case, not your problem."

Warrick met his eyes. "I don't mean to offend, but your captain sounds like a jackass."

Nick chuckled bitterly. "Yeah. He's that."

"I know it's not my case," Warrick said calmly, "but you know as well as I do that if you want any hope of your investigation being considered objective, you need a neutral third party."

Nick closed his eyes and knew that Warrick was right, however undeniable the evidence was that Maribel was just as guilty as her father. He let out a breath and looked away from Warrick.

"I got your back, man – just give me five minutes."

Without turning around, Nick nodded. When Warrick left, Nick restored the evidence to the box and brought it back to the evidence clerk, and then headed to the door to wait for Warrick.

* * *

He was sitting on a hallway bench, his head resting against the wall with his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, when a familiar-looking strawberry blonde sauntered in through the door. He glanced up as she passed; she paid him no attention, and his eyes drifted toward the door again. Her heels clicked their way down the hall, then stopped and started again. When Nick realized they were getting louder, he lifted his head.

"Hey, Stokes."

He stood. "Hello, ma'am – Willows, right?"

"Catherine," she replied with a smile. "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Warrick," he replied as politely as possible. "He said he'd be five minutes to talk with Brass about something – I think that was fifteen minutes ago."

Catherine chuckled. "Well, Brass doesn't tend to be too long-winded, but he and your new friend don't get along so well."

"I noticed that," replied Nick.

"How's your case going?" asked Catherine solicitously.

Nick looked away. "Yeah . . . it kind of took a turn for the worse," he said, and then met her eyes again. "Somethin' I didn't expect. But – hey, that's the job, right?"

She smiled. "Yeah, it is. You want to talk it out?"

"Oh – that's kind of you to offer, but you probably have better things to do. I'll just wait for Warrick."

"I wouldn't mind," replied Catherine sincerely. "It always helps to have fresh perspective."

Nick searched her face for any sign of hesitancy or deceit; finding none, he ventured, "Well, if you really wouldn't mind . . . the facts in the case are all pretty cut and dried. I'm just not sure what to do next."

They both took a seat on the bench then, and Nick found himself giving in to Catherine's honest interest. He told her the entire story, careful to avoid too much personal detail. When he was finished, he paused a moment and said, "So . . . obviously I have to go to the hospital and question her."

Catherine nodded. "You have some pretty tough questions to ask," she said needlessly. "And some answers that you're probably not going to want to hear. You should probably take both Brass and Warrick with you."

He mimicked her. "She's too sick to arrest. She – she'll be . . . I mean, she doesn't have much time left."

"I'm sorry," said Catherine. "I can tell this isn't easy for you and I don't think I'd be doing much better. But whether she gets charged or not – that's not your call. It's the DA's."

It wasn't anything he didn't already know and he nodded again as he looked away.

"Sometimes you just have to leave things in their hands. When you're this emotionally involved – it's probably for the best." Nick was quiet a moment before she continued, "That's always been my least favorite part of the job."

He smiled a little and looked back at her kind eyes. "Mine too."

Warrick rounded the corner then, with Brass on his heels. Catherine turned her head. "Well – looks like you're on your way. Good luck, Stokes." As she rose she squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, and saluted the two men with a nod as she passed them.

"Make another new friend?" asked Brass, poking his thumb in Catherine's direction.

Nick said nothing but nodded.

Warrick, far more sensitive than Brass, just tilted his head at the door. "We should go."

Nick nodded again and rose, following both to Brass's car.

* * *

The ride to the hospital was close to silent. Nick felt less like an investigator and more like an executioner as he led Brass and Warrick through the hallways. When they reached the nurse's station he spoke quietly about Maribel's condition with her nurse briefly, out of earshot of Brass and Warrick.

She was awake and met his eyes as soon as he framed himself in the door to her room. For a long moment, neither said anything.

"Hola, Maribel."

From his distance and his expression she knew he was there because of his work. "Hola, Nicolas," she solemnly replied.

He took a few steps into the room, and behind him, Brass and Warrick appeared. Nick saw her eyes shift to look at them, and then she looked back at him.

"¿Trajiste toda la caballería?"

"No," he replied. "Ellos están aquí porque necesitan estar. No te preocupes por ellos. Solo habla conmigo."

She nodded and Nick noted how tired she looked. He took a few more steps toward the bed and sat down at her feet. "This is Captain Brass – you know Warrick," he began, his tone business-like. "You understand why your father was pulled over here in Las Vegas?"

"He was speeding," she replied, her voice a whisper. "Trying to get me to the hospital. I passed out in the car."

"Okay," said Nick. "He was retained because his fingerprints match an open case of mine. It was an abandoned truck just outside of Red Oak. When the highway patrol opened it up there were eleven people inside. Six of them died."

Maribel's eyes had flooded, and Nick's were dangerously close to doing the same. There was so much fear and guilt in her eyes that he didn't have to ask to know that she knew what had happened.

"When I processed the cab of the truck I found your father's fingerprints on the wheel. I also found some food scraps, which I pulled DNA out of. There were two separate profiles – one matched your father. The other one has enough in common with his that I know it's yours." He paused for a moment, looking down, and then showed her a photo. "I also found these fibers. They're a match to the jersey that Mr. Brown recovered from the cab of the truck you and your father were driving here in Las Vegas."

Maribel handed the photo back to him. "You know I was in the truck when those people died."

Nick nodded sadly. "Yeah, I do."

"I tell you everything," she replied, sucking in a breath to avoid a sob. "But you have to promise to be fair to Papí."

"We'll be fair, ma'am," said Brass.

Maribel looked up at Brass and regarded him a moment before nodding and looking down at her hands. Then she began her tale. "After we left Dallas we went to Houston. We stay there a little while, but my uncle convince us to go to California. I work with my father in Los Angeles. It felt nice to be a part of the community. I worked hard and saved all my money. I start to make plans to go back to Mexico and immigrate legally. Then Papí would have a sponsor and we could all stay, and I could go back to Dallas to find you. But then I start to get sick. . . ." She trailed off a little.

"Ramón told me that you have lupus," said Nick gently.

She nodded. "Papí start to drive trucks so he can take me back and forth to Mexico. I stay with my abuela. . . . It helps to have rest, to not be with busy young children. Most of the time we take things over the border – trinkets or fruit – but I knew that sometimes we take people. Usually, I never know which – I sleep all the time now. So I made Papí promise to tell me if people are in the truck, and he promised. The day we were in Dallas, heading north, something go wrong with the truck, and he pulled over. My father start to get dizzy – it was a hot day and he doesn' take care of himself. He passed out while he was looking under the hood. I stop a car for help, and I left the truck on the side of the road." Tears running freely down her cheeks, she paused a moment and looked away. "It was hours before he woke. By the time we got back to where we left the truck, the police were already there. I didn' know about the people, Nicolas… I didn' know there were people in the truck."

Nick swallowed to clear his throat, constricted with emotion. "I believe you," he told her. "I will make sure everyone knows I believe you. But Maribel, what happens to Ramón, and to you, is completely out of my hands. I'll do what I can, but I can't promise anything."

She nodded and wiped the tears form her cheeks. "Papí will not accept your help."

"Papí will not have a choice," said Nick, a plan already forming in his mind.

"Hey, Stokes," said Brass, "I got all I need, so I'm gonna go on and call Fischer."

Nick touched Maribel's hand and met her eyes. "I'll be right back," he promised, and she nodded.

The three men stepped out into the hallway. "You have to arrest her," said Brass gently, once outside the room.

Nick nodded. "I know." He swallowed back his emotion. "Her kidneys are starting to fail. She won't live long enough to get back to Dallas."

"What's your DA gonna charge Ramón with?"

"Probably nothin'," he replied.

Brass raised an eyebrow. "Nothing? They fly you all the way out here kicking and screaming, you find the people responsible, and then . . . you don't charge anyone?"

With a smirk he couldn't help, Nick replied, "I know some people."

"What about the people who are still dead?" asked Brass pointedly.

Nick faced the older man and used as even a tone as he could muster. "The most he's guilty of is negligence and violating immigration laws. The most he's gonna get is deported. What good is it going to do to put Ramón away? He's got a wife and five more kids in LA and relatives in Mexico he's still supporting."

Brass harrumphed and then nodded. "All right – that's your business. Listen, kid, I gotta call Fischer and update him. I assume he'll handle everything with your DA. . . . What can I tell him about you?"

Nick considered this question for a long moment while looking at Maribel's room. Then he turned back to Brass and replied, "You can tell him I'm going to wrap things up here and be on the first available flight."

Brass nodded. "Somehow, I don't quite believe that."

Nick raised an eyebrow at Brass, his arms crossed over his chest. "I wouldn't ask you to lie, sir."

With a smirk, Brass stuck out his hand. "It was nice working with you, kid." Nick shook his and Warrick's hands, and then turned back to Maribel's room.

(c) 2011 J. H. Thompson


	10. Chapter 10

Um... So Hi! This might be a leeeeetle late... Sorry about that. :D I hope you enjoy this update! More is on the horizon!

* * *

_**Last time: **_

_Brass harrumphed and then nodded. "All right – that's your business. Listen, kid, I gotta call Fischer and update him. I assume he'll handle everything with your DA. . . . What can I tell him about you?"_

_Nick considered this question for a long moment while looking at Maribel's room. Then he turned back to Brass and replied, "You can tell him I'm going to wrap things up here and be on the first available flight."_

_Brass nodded. "Somehow, I don't quite believe that." _

_Nick raised an eyebrow at Brass, his arms crossed over his chest. "I wouldn't ask you to lie, sir."_

_With a smirk, Brass stuck out his hand. "It was nice working with you, kid." Nick shook his and Warrick's hands, and then turned back to Maribel's room._

* * *

Exiting Maribel's hospital room was a tall, slightly pudgy man in a white coat. Nick approached him.

"Are you Maribel's doctor?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm treating Ms. Serrano . . . who are you?"

"I'm a friend of hers; my name's Nick Stokes." He held out his hand for the doctor to shake.

The doctor accepted Nick's hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Stokes. I'm Dr. Harris."

"How's she doing?" asked Nick. "What's her prognosis?"

Dr. Harris looked Nick over for a moment. "How close a friend are you?" he asked.

"I'm all she has."

The doctor cleared his throat. "Well, Mr. Stokes . . . you know that she has lupus?"

"Yes."

"And you know that there's no cure for that."

"Well, yeah . . . but I thought, maybe now that she's got some medical attention . . . there would be something you could do. You know . . . give her a little . . . a little more time."

Dr. Harris shook his head. "She's in bad shape," he said, not unsympathetically.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do? Because if it's a question of who'll pay the bills-"

"I treat all of my patients the same – it's not a matter of money," said Dr. Harris, his irritation evident. "If she had gotten to me sooner – _much_ sooner – I could have extended her life. As it stands . . . there's nothing I can do. She's very sick, Mr. Stokes."

Nick lowered his head, and then raised it again to look the doctor squarely in the eye. "How much time does she have?"

Dr. Harris shook his head a little. "It's hard to tell at this point. She could fight it for as long as a week . . . or she could let go, and it would only be a couple of hours. Right now, it's all in her hands. We're managing her pain, but that's really all we can do. I'm sorry."

Nick lowered his head again, and covered his eyes. The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment, then squeezed and walked away.

* * *

When he returned to Maribel's room he stood a respectable distance away from her bed again, like he had when Brass and Warrick were behind him. Her head rested on her pillow, and her eyes were closed.

He took the moment to absorb her condition, to acknowledge what her nurses and doctor had told him. She looked small and frail, a far cry from the healthy, beautiful teenager she had been when he'd last seen her in Dallas, crying in his parents' driveway.

Maribel took a deep breath and let it out, and then opened her eyes and looked Nick over. "Where is my father?" she asked, her voice markedly more tired.

"He's being held for now," replied Nick. "I'll do what I can for him."

"Are you going to call your father?"

"No," replied Nick. He approached her bedside then, cautiously. "I need to make some phone calls," he said. "I have to talk to my captain and the DA about this case. I don't know what they'll want me to do, but whatever it is, I have to do it."

She nodded. "I know."

"I shouldn't be too long. I'll be back as soon as I can, and we can talk, okay?"

Again, she nodded, tears trailing down her cheeks. "Okay, Nicky."

He took her use of his favored nickname as encouragement and leaned forward to leave a kiss on her temple. "I'll see you soon," he whispered, and with a light squeeze of her fingers, he left the room, bound for the crime lab.

* * *

After picking up his evidence from the clerk, he sat in a quiet conference room and made the phone calls he needed to make. He explained what he had uncovered first to the Houston County district attorney. She was a family friend and they liked and trusted one another, in addition to being united in their dislike of Captain Fischer. They agreed on a course of action, and she promised to filter the message down to the captain. Then he called another old friend, one who knew what it was like to be judged unfairly, to ask for a bit of specialized help.

Then he went to PD to pay one last visit to Ramón.

Nick sat down across from Maribel's father and met his eyes. Ramón was infuriatingly calm, and even smirked.

"What did you find out, Señor Stokes?"

"According to what my DA says, you're just as responsible as she is," he replied. "More so, in my opinion. You should have told her there were people in that truck."

Ramón shook his head. "Do you know how much stress it put on her to know when we had passengers?" he said. "She'd be in pain for weeks. The trips back and forth to Mexico were supposed to help her."

Nick sighed and looked away. "I'm not going to fight this fight with you."

"Then what are you here for?" asked Ramón.

Nick looked up at him again. "The only thing I ever wanted from you."

Ramón gave Nick a long, searching look. "She's been sick a long time," he said. "But these last months. . . . Do you remember her Quinceañera?"

"Yes," replied Nick softly, as memories of his teenaged self with ruffle-clad Maribel in his arms danced through his thoughts.

"These last months, when I look at her, I have to think of a time when she was happy, or I get angry. I have to remind myself that she had some very good years. Lately, it's been her Quinceañera that I've thought of. I suppose because I'll never have the chance to see her get married. Putting her hand in yours that night is the closest I'll ever come to giving her away. I didn't have a choice that night . . . . and, I suppose, I don't have a choice now."

Nick shook his head. "Not really, no."

Ramón chuckled a little and turned back to Nick. "What do you want?" he asked gently.

The younger man paused a moment before he voiced what he did not quite believe yet. "I need to know what to do after she dies."

Ramón's eye twitched. "You shouldn't have to do anything. She'll be sent back to Mexico, just like me."

"I can bring her home," said Nick. "I can get her to California."

"She doesn't belong in this country," said Ramón. "Assuming they bother checking for next of kin, your government will send her body to her grandmother. She will make sure her granddaughter gets a proper funeral."

"I can get her to California," protested Nick again.

"Nicolas, I said no!" snapped Ramón, and for a split second Nick remembered being eighteen and entirely intimidated by him.

But Nick wasn't the same wide-eyed teenager; he was a grown man whose world had just been upended, and he snapped right back at Maribel's father. "Hey – you know what, I got a newsflash for you, Ramón! This isn't all about you! Stop being so damn stubborn!"

"I am not a spoiled child like you, Nicolas! I will have no less than what my daughter deserves!"

"Your daughter doesn't deserve to be buried in Mexico where no one will visit her! Her mother deserves to know where she is – what Maribel deserves, Ramón, is to have a funeral where her sisters and brother can cry and mourn and talk about how much they love her. It isn't just _you_ that's losing Maribel."

Ramón looked away again.

"I'll get her to California. You tell me which church."

"Nicolas-"

"Which. Church?"

Ramón sighed. "Saint Cecelia."

"Thank you," said Nick, and he waited for Ramón to look up at him again. "INS will be here to take you into custody within an hour; they'll move you to Houston County."

"What about Maribel? What will we be charged with?"

"In exchange for your full cooperation, they'll drop all criminal charges against Maribel. You'll be charged with aiding and abetting for sure, and probably negligent homicide," replied Nick. "Other than that, I don't honestly know. But you have a good lawyer, and she'll do what she can for you."

Ramón couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Friend of yours, I assume."

"Her name's Jenny Baker," said Nick. "She'll be in contact with you soon." Nick paused and looked him over. He was tired, that was sure, but there was something else in his eyes. "Did you get the chance to say goodbye?"

Ramón met his eyes. "No," he said. "They put her in an ambulance and me in a squad car. Pulled over for speeding . . . arrested because my ID was expired. All these years, I have been so careful . . . only to get tagged for something stupid."

Nick smiled. "That's not all that uncommon. But to be honest, I'm glad you were stupid."

The older man looked closely at Nick for a moment, and then spoke in a low voice. "Her birth certificate is in the inside pocket of the jacket she was wearing."

"She just happens to have her birth certificate?"

"We brought it along so the hospital would know where to send her," said Ramón, irritated.

Nick nodded once, and then asked one more question. "Sir. . . . Does Señora Serrano know about any of this?"

Ramón lowered his chin and let out a breath. "Yes. She knows." Then he swallowed and looked at the table top for a long moment, formulating what he would say next. "I don't know if it will make any difference to you," he began, "but those eleven people – the ones who died, the ones who suffered – I never meant them any harm. I mourned their passing; I don't bow my head to pray without begging forgiveness for the blood on my hands."

It did make a difference to Nick, and he told Ramón as much. Ramón was stubborn as hell, but Nick knew he'd been right all along – he loved his family; he was a good man.

"Cuidala muy bien, Nicolas," snapped Ramón suddenly.

Nick held his sad and angry gaze for a moment. "Yo cuidare de ella, Señor Serrano."

Ramón nodded and looked away. "Te deberias ir," he said.

Nick nodded as well. "Sí, deberia irme." He stood up and pushed his chair in. "Adios, señor. Cuidese."

"Goodbye, Nick," replied the older man with a smile, and then he watched Nick walk away for the last time.

* * *

"Your father said you had things to do in Texas."

Maribel's eyelids fluttered, and she watched Nick walk toward her bed. "I did," she said softly. "But Texas came to me."

He sat on the edge of her bed. "You were coming to find me?"

"I wasn' going to look for you," she said. "I thought you'd be married by now, maybe have some children already. I didn' want to upset your life. I just wanted to remember. Just wanted to go back to school . . . to the baseball fields . . . to Holy Cross, our church."

He allowed a little smile. "I always thought that's where we'd get married."

She smiled too, when he took her hand. "My father was here to say goodbye. He's on the way to Texas. He said you got him a lawyer."

"I did," he said, turning serious a moment. "Do you remember Jenny Baker?"

Maribel nodded. "Yes. She was always nice to me."

"She's a good lawyer."

"Why didn't you ask Billy?" she queried, tilting her head.

"Because Billy's still a prick," replied Nick matter-of-factly, a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

A slow smile crept across her face. "Some things don' change," she said.

He smiled back. "No, they don't."

She admired him sleepily for a long moment. "I always loved your smile." His eyes filled at this admission, and he brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. "I always loved you."

He scooted closer to her, tightening his grip on her hand. "Why didn't you write to me?" he asked.

She sat up a little straighter, holding his eager gaze. "We were in Houston only a month. Everything went so crazy after we left . . . to be honest, I didn' know what to write. I didn' feel right, but I thought it was just having to move, having to leave you and all of my friends. After we move to California, that's when I knew something was wrong, and I finally saw a doctor. I didn't want to be a burden, not to anyone. And I tried to write to you, to tell you, but every time I tried . . . I couldn't. I couldn't tell you that you'd never have what we talked about having with each other – a good, long marriage, and a house full of children. Not with me. I thought it was better if you let it go – if you thought I didn' care anymore, it would be easier to move on."

"It was hell, Maribel," he said, his voice low. The tears were starting to roll down his cheeks.

"By the time I regretted it . . . it was too late."

He wanted to tell her that it wasn't, it would never have been, but he couldn't speak.

"I wanted you to think I found that nice Catholic boy my father always wanted for me. I wanted you to paint that pretty picture of me in your mind."

"I did," said Nick finally. "And I hated that nice Catholic boy."

Maribel smiled.

"I was angry at you, for a while. But I kept looking because I wanted to know what happened to you . . . and I always hoped that that boy hadn't shown up yet."

She chuckled a little. "He never did," she said. "I never liked nice Catholic boys anyway. For me, I only liked slightly naughty Protestant boys."

Nick laughed and leaned in to kiss her forehead. "This slightly naughty Protestant boy loves you."

"Still?" she whispered. "After everything?"

"Still," he replied. "Always."

"Nicky," she whispered, and put her free hand against his cheek.

"I'm going to get you home," he said.

"I can't go anywhere," she said. "I can't even stand."

"I mean . . . I mean after . . ."

"After I die?" she asked. "It's OK to say it, Nicky. I know I don' have long."

He nodded and tried to fight back tears. "For your funeral," he clarified. "I'm going to get you home."

She shook her head. "Nicky, it's OK. I have my birth certificate. They will send me to my abuela; she'll bury me. When my father and I planned this trip he knew he would have to leave me at a hospital. He took care of everything."

He knitted his brows and tilted his head. "I still don't understand why you tried to make it to Texas in the first place."

Maribel smiled at him. "I had a choice. . . . I could wait to die at home with my family, or I could go with my father to Texas . I didn' want to wait for my death, and I didn' want my sisters' last memory of me to be anything but a smile. I don' want to be forgotten in Mexico, but I could only choose one. I regretted never contacting you, and I thought if I could remember our years together . . . I thought, if I could be close to those places – close to you . . . maybe it would be a little better."

He smiled through the bitter tears of happiness rolling down his cheeks. "Maribel, do you want to be buried in Mexico?"

"No," she said. "I don't want to be buried at all."

"Well, I don't want to bury you, but I don't get to pick."

"Will you really get me home?"

Nick nodded.

"Then that's what I want," she said, tears spilling down her cheeks, as well. "I love California . . . I want to be where Mami can visit me."

"I'll get you there," he vowed.

"How can you do that?" she whispered.

He searched her face, and paused to blot her tears with a tissue. "Do you remember the night you left Texas ?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Do you remember . . . you said you wanted to marry me?"

She nodded. "Yes, Nicky. I meant it."

"Do you still want to marry me?"

Smiling, she tilted her head and her eyes filled with tears. "If we had more time . . . if I wasn't dying, Nicolas, I would still marry you."

"I promised you," he said quietly. "I promised I would marry you."

"Nicky-"

"Mari, if you were healthy we would have all the time in the world. If you were healthy, you and I could take our time re-establishing our relationship and we could make plans . . . but we don't have time. You're dying." His eyes flooded and his throat constricted. "If you really don't want to, Mari, I'll understand. I will. But I didn't just promise I'd marry you because I was a stupid teenager; I didn't just promise I'd marry you because I wanted you to think it was OK that we messed around in the barn; I'm not just talking about it now as a means to get you home to your mom. I promised to marry you because I _wanted_ to marry you, because I wanted to be your husband, and I still do."

She was crying openly now. "I wanted to be a wife and mother more than anything," she said.

Nick put his hand on her cheek and wiped her tears away with his thumb. "You can still be a wife," he said. "You can still be my wife."

"For only a little while. A blink of an eye."

"Yes. I know it isn't perfect, Mari. I'm sorry."

She rested her head on her pillow and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she lifted his hand to hers and kissed it. "I will marry you," she said. "But I want to be married in the eyes of God."

Nick smiled and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "I'll find a priest," he said. "I'll take care of everything, Mari – you rest. I'll be back soon."

* * *

**Thanks for your patience, and for reading! Leave a little review, if you like - they make a big difference!**


	11. Chapter 11

The courthouse was his first stop, where he realized to his horror that despite the fact that he had her birth certificate, in order to get a marriage license, both he and Maribel would need to appear. Of course, there was no way that could happen; she was far too ill. But Nick was not deterred; he waited in the lobby until someone who looked vaguely like Maribel walked in.

The girl, whose real name was Ofelia, was about as different from Maribel as could be, but three hundred dollars later he walked out with the magic piece of paper. Then he went back to his hotel room, where he used the yellow pages to make a list of all of the Catholic churches in the area. Then he went to each of them, where he explained that he wanted to marry a Mexican citizen who was presently in the hospital, and that it would be best if he could do so in the next 12 hours. He was soundly turned down at the first five.

Father Frank, at St. Joseph's, was at least willing to counsel him. "Mr. Stokes . . . you do realize that this isn't exactly . . . legal, don't you?"

Nick shrugged. "It's legal enough," he said. "I'm not hiding anything and neither is she."

"The church has requirements that must be met before we will marry a couple," continued the good Father. "Your twelve hour timeframe isn't enough time to complete those. You both should be counseled individually, and we usually ask couples to receive some education, and go on a retreat-"

"The retreat will last longer than the marriage will," snapped Nick impatiently. "She's dying."

Confusion and what appeared to be genuine concern flashed across Father Frank's features. "I'm sorry," he said. "I think you need to explain in more detail."

Nick let out a breath and began. "She and I were high school sweethearts," he began, and talked about their young love and her sudden departure; how he had been looking for her and had never really given up hope that he'd find her; how she had so unexpectedly crossed his path here in Las Vegas. And then he added the gory technical detail. "If she's my wife, I can claim her body after she dies. I can send her home to California to be buried in the parish where her family has belonged since they moved to Los Angeles. Otherwise, she'll be sent to Mexico. She doesn't want that. I don't want that."

"You can claim her anyway," said Father Frank. "You'd have to file a claim in probate-"

"Probate takes too long, and I _meant_ all that stuff about wanting to marry her," snapped Nick, feeling heat creep up his cheeks. "Look, I am asking you to do something for a woman who's been a faithful Catholic her whole life. I know you don't know her, and I know you don't know me, but honestly, Father, who is this hurting?"

The priest sighed. "Mr. Stokes . . ."

But Nick knew he had him, and he rose. "There's a chapel at the hospital. I'll see you there at six – oh, and I need a witness." He rose and made to leave the sanctuary.

He was halfway down the aisle when he heard his name again. He stopped and turned, hoisting an eyebrow.

"I have an appointment at six. It'll have to be seven."

With a smile, Nick nodded. "I'll see you then."

* * *

He bought a pair of simple gold rings, a new navy blue suit, and a white lace dress he hoped would fit her. He bought her soft blue satin undergarments, at the suggestion of the woman who had tended him at the bridal shop. He bought a lace veil and white lace shoes for her dainty feet.

At his still-unused hotel, he called Juanita, the department secretary.

"Dallas crime lab. How can I direct your call?"

"Hey, Juanita – it's Nick."

"Hola, Nicolas," she said brightly. "Are you still in Las Vegas?"

"Yeah, but I don't know how long I'll be here. The case is wrapped up; I talked to DA Carols this morning. She should've talked to Fischer about that."

"I heard naughty, naughty words come out of his office today when she visited. You're not in trouble, Nicolas?"

Nick smiled despite himself. "No, I'm not. But I'll be here for a bit longer – personal reasons. I need about the next week off."

"I'll put it on the calendar," she said. "You enjoy yourself; you haven't had time off in a long time."

"I know." Nick paused a moment. "You'll probably hear some more naughty words come out of Fischer's mouth when you tell him . . . let me know how bad it is. I'll buy you a present."

She laughed. "All right, CSI Stokes . . . off you go. Have fun."

He said goodbye to Juanita and briefly considered calling his parents or sisters. But what would he say? Where would he start? No – he didn't have time. He needed to get back to the hospital.

He changed into his suit and brought the dress, shoes, and veil with him. When he arrived her nurse was just taking away a mostly uneaten tray of food. "Hello," she said. "I'm going to be right back to check her vitals."

Nick smiled. "Thanks," he said. Then he turned to Maribel, who was sitting up in bed, and smiled.

She grinned back. "You look very nice."

"Thanks," he said again. "I got you somethin' to wear."

Maribel tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. "You bought me a dress?"

"Well, yeah. You can't wear a hospital gown to your own wedding. Father Frank will be in the chapel at seven – we have about a half an hour."

Her eyes lit up and she laughed. "Nicolas, you are a silly and stubborn boy. I am not even going to ask how you made that happen."

"It's best that you don't," he replied, thinking of Ofelia. "Anyway – take a look, let me know if you like this." He hung the dress on the back of the bathroom door, and then unzipped the protective plastic cover. It was a pretty basic dress, floor-length with long bell-cuffed sleeves, and a ribbon under the bustline with a little bow on one side.

A tear was sliding down her cheek when he turned back to her. "Mari?"

She let out a little laugh. "It's beautiful," she replied, looking at him, and then the dress again. "Perfect."

Not a thing about this was perfect at all, but Nick tried not to think about that. "Do you think you can get into it? Are you strong enough?"

She nodded, and the nurse came back in just at that moment. "That's a pretty dress," she said. "Yours?"

"Yes," replied Maribel. They were quiet while the nurse took her vitals, and then she asked, "Can you help me into it?"

The nurse hesitated. "Well . . . I could . . . but what's it for?"

"Just a little service in the chapel," said Maribel before he could say anything. "I won't be long; he'll be with me."

She still seemed unsure, her eyes flicking from Nick to Maribel and back again, but she ultimately relented.

"Do you want me to come get you, or do you want me to send someone up?" asked Nick. Maribel thought a moment, and then asked him to send someone. He smiled and kissed her forehead. "Okay. I'll see you down there."

Maribel nodded, smiling, and he left the room.

* * *

When he got to the chapel he found it empty, and wished he'd thought to find some flowers somewhere. He was just wondering if he had time to go get any when Father Frank and an older woman entered the chapel.

"Hello," he said in greeting.

"Hello, Mr. Stokes," said Father Frank, looking grave. "Where is your intended?"

"She's upstairs getting ready," he replied.

He nodded, and then turned to his companion. "This is Mrs. Fontanella; she's one of our secretaries at St. Joseph. She'll be your witness."

Nick reached for Mrs. Fontanella's hand and shook it. "Thanks for doing this, ma'am." She nodded, and smiled a little at him, but said nothing. Nick supposed it was because she didn't quite know what to say to a man who was marrying a dying woman. "Would you mind terribly – she doesn't want me to go get her . . ."

"Oh – I'd be happy to. Which room?" asked Mrs. Fontanella. Nick gave her the information, and repeated Maribel's name, and she left the chapel.

When she was gone, Father Frank turned to Nick. "Are you a Catholic, Mr. Stokes?"

"You can call me Nick," he said. "I'm not Catholic. My mother's parents were Baptists and my father's were Lutheran, so they went Methodist."

"Protestants, all," commented the Father.

Nick smirked. "Yeah."

The older man took a breath and worried his brow. "I don't mean to be indelicate, but . . . is Maribel's death a foregone conclusion?" he asked.

It pained Nick to have to answer, "Yes. The disease is in her kidneys; it's just a matter of time."

"You mentioned she's a faithful Catholic . . . I brought what I need to give her last rites, if you think that's something she wants."

Nick was slightly taken aback, but nodded. "Yeah . . . yeah, I'm sure . . . I'm sure she would."

The priest nodded. "All right. Are you a believer yourself, Nick?"

Nick smiled a little. "I'm a criminalist," he replied. "I was a police officer for a few years, and I've been an investigator for a little longer than that. In just over four years, I've seen things that would even make _you_ question your faith." When the priest started to interrupt him, he held up a hand. "Don't say that the faith of the clergy is unshakable, because frankly, sir, I've seen that, too."

Father Frank smiled sadly. "I'm sorry that your young eyes have seen so many tragedies," he said. "The church – whatever kind – can be a place of healing."

Nick smiled back at him. "I'll tell you what I always tell my mom. I'll keep that in mind."

The chapel door opened then, and Mrs. Fontanella stepped inside. "Maribel is here," she said with a smile.

Father Frank turned to Nick and excused himself for a moment to go out to the hallway and meet with Maribel. Nick wondered if he planned to try to talk her out of it, but knew that once she decided on something, no act of God could change her mind.

When Father Frank returned, he spoke with Mrs. Fontanella. "Give us just a minute, and then bring her in," he said, and she left the chapel. Then he approached Nick. "Will you be exchanging rings?"

"Oh – yes," said Nick, reaching into his pocket and extracting the jeweler's box. He handed it to Father Frank, who removed the rings and placed them in his own pocket.

"We'll do the ceremony, and then I'll give you some time to yourselves. We can take care of the other matter later on this evening." Nick nodded in understanding, and the Father directed him to a spot by the first pew and took his own position just as Mrs. Fontanella opened the door to bring the bride in.

Maribel was smiling as the matronly woman rolled her wheelchair into the little chapel. For a split second, anger bubbled up in Nick's throat – this was not right; not the way it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to be walking, beaming, in a big white gown, with daisies in her hair, Ramón scowling next to her.

But, for her, he swallowed the anger. For her, despite the tear that rolled down his cheek, he smiled.

He sat down in the first pew so that she didn't have to look up at him. Father Frank, of course, being as verbose as any other clergy person Nick had ever met, felt the need for a homily. Nick snuck a peek at Maribel, her veil hiding the fact that her hair was thin and brittle, and he let his thoughts wander.

"Nicholas? Nick?"

Nick snapped back to attention. Maribel squeezed his right hand, which he did not remember joining with hers, and smiled as he turned pink. "Yeah. . . . Sorry." He hadn't slept since arriving in Las Vegas, and it was starting to take its toll.

"Repeat after me, Nick."

He turned back to Maribel. "I Nicholas take you Maria Isabel to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love, honor, and cherish, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. . . ." He stopped short of repeating the last line.

"Until death do us part," repeated Father Frank.

Nick took a breath and looked from him to Maribel. Her brow was worried.

"Nicky, it's okay."

He shook his head. "No, it isn't."

The Father took mercy on him, and didn't press the issue. Instead he turned to Maribel, and she made her own vows, omitting the same part that Nick had. Then he removed the rings from his pocket, placed them on the Bible he held, and blessed them before handing the smaller one to Nick and leading them through the exchange of the rings. Despite the circumstances Nick's heart gave a leap when Father Frank finally declared, "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife," and invited him to kiss his bride.

He leaned in and gently brushed his lips with hers. Memories of the hours they'd spent in the barn at home, holding hands and cuddling under blankets at football games, and long summer afternoons on beaches flashed in his mind, and when he looked into her eyes he knew she was thinking of the same things. He also knew she'd been out of bed too long; despite her smile, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Father Frank invited Mrs. Fontanella to the podium to sign the marriage license. He hesitated himself, but signed it quickly. Nick and Maribel thanked Mrs. Fontanella and said goodbye to her, and Father Frank left a moment later.

Alone, he took Maribel's hand and smiled widely at her. "Señora Stokes," he said, with a kiss of her hand. "You're stunning."

She chuckled a little. "You lie. But it is a beautiful dress. . . ."

"I wouldn't lie to my wife."

She smiled and reached out for his face. He scooted closer. "You said before . . . you said you painted a pretty picture for me in your mind when you couldn' find me. Now I want you to paint a pretty picture for yourself in your mind. The pretty house, and the pretty wife."

He smiled. "But I already have a pretty"

She put her index finger across his lips to silence him. "Nicolas Parker Stokes . . . you know what I am talking about." She wasn't angry, but she was immovable. "I love you, and I am proud to be your wife, but I don' get to stay. I want you to remember me, but I also want you to move on. I still want you to have a family of your own. I still want for you what we talked about having all those years ago, even if I can't be there."

He looked away a moment. "Maribel. . . ."

She reached out and turned his face back to her, and with a sweet smile, she said quietly, "Please, Nicolas. Please promise me you will not make yourself miserable. The last thing in the world I would want is for you to be lonely."

He leaned forward and kissed her again, not really knowing what else to do or say.

She was smiling when he pulled away. "Stupid boy," she laughed. "You always kiss me when you don' know what to say."

He laughed too, and turned pink, and couldn't help leaning forward to kiss her again, this time on the cheek.

"Promise me," she said, laying her hand against his cheek.

He drew a deep breath. "I promise," he forced himself to say, and his voice was hoarse and crackled. "I have no idea how . . . but I promise, for you." She smiled and nodded her approval. "Now, Mrs. Stokes . . . I believe it's time you and I retire to the bridal suite."

She smiled. He gathered her up in his arms, sat himself in her wheelchair, and arranged her in his lap. She giggled and curled up, laying her head on his shoulder. Her veil fell off and she gathered it in her hands as he carefully maneuvered the wheelchair out of the chapel and into the hall.

* * *

Thanks for sticking with me! Please consider leaving a review!


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry for the delay... This is a little longer; hopefully that will make up for it. I hope you continue to enjoy the story, and give me some feedback - either good or bad - at the end.**

**I also want to thank elianatcb for correcting my awful Spanish - I really do appreciate your work! Thank you so much!**

** Thanks for reading!**

* * *

The nurse was livid when he rolled into the room; Maribel was already asleep in his lap. Meaner people had cussed him out before, for far more petty things, so when she started in on him, he just let it roll off his back. When she got what he judged to be too loud, he shushed her.

"Would you mind? She's asleep. Can you fix her bed please?"

Scowling, the nurse straightened the covers on Maribel's bed. Nick slid carefully out of his suit jacket, locked the wheels on the chair, and stood with Maribel in his arms. He then settled them both on the bed. The nurse covered her and connected her IV to the machine that controlled her morphine drip. She told him to be careful, dimmed the lights, and left the room.

Nick was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. He closed his eyes and stroked his wife's brittle hair. "Goodnight, Mrs. Stokes," he whispered.

The whole thing was just a little too surreal. He didn't quite believe it and wondered if maybe he fell asleep he'd wake up in his bedroom. Maybe this was just an awful dream, one designed to motivate him to search – _really_ search – for Maribel and her family. Maybe there was no lupus and no truck and no jersey.

But then Maribel drew in a rattily breath, rumpled her brow, and sighed. He looked at her a long moment, her pale complexion, the dark circles under her eyes, the IV that was now re-connected to her hand. . . . No, this was real. Much too real.

He thought about her request to remember her, but move on, and the amount of selflessness and humility it would take to make a request like that. He had really met no one else like her, and he very much doubted that he ever would. For the time being, however, he couldn't think about much more than what was right in front of him. He didn't have any idea how much time Maribel had left, and he had to make every moment count.

She slept peacefully for a handful of hours, her left hand tucked into his right one and her head on his shoulder. At around nine o'clock, Father Frank came into the room.

"Hello, Nick."

Nick barely moved. "Hello, Father." He turned her palm up and kissed it. "I'm guessing I should wake her."

"If you can, it would be best," he replied, "although it's not necessary, unless she has a confession she wants to voice, or wants to receive communion."

Nick sighed. He honestly had no idea what she wanted. "Give me just a moment."

"Of course," said the Father, and took a step backward.

"Maribel," he whispered into her ear, stroking her cheek. "Maribel, el Padre Frank vino a verte." She pushed her brows together and mumbled something into his shoulder. "Maribel . . . despierta, cariño."

"No quiero," she mumbled. "Quiero dormir en tus brazos, porfavor Nicolas."

He smiled and closed his eyes. "Lo siento, mi amor." He lifted his head a little to speak to the priest. "She doesn't need to move or anything?"

Father Frank shook his head. "No . . . she's just fine where she is."

"No tienes que ir a ningun lado, Mari," he whispered.

She opened her eyes. "Hueles bien."

Nick chuckled; her lips curled up a little. "Estas lista?"

"Sí," she replied.

Father Frank took a step forward then, and Nick watched as she received her final sacraments. He had to remind himself that this was what she wanted; that at least, if she had to die, he was there to make sure it happened according to her own terms. When he was finished, Father Frank looked like he wanted to say something to Nick, but only bid them farewell, shook Nick's hand, and left the room. Maribel snuggled back into his chest.

"Are you okay?" he asked as he stroked her hair.

"I'm fine," she whispered. "Nicky, I'm happy."

"Then I'm happy too," he lied.

She took a deep breath and sought his hand; once their hands were intertwined, she looked up at him. "You're not," she countered. "But Nicolas . . . everything happens for a reason. We just don' know why when it happens. All I ever asked for was a simple life – all I ever wanted was to have my own home and family, and I have to ask why I don' get such a simple request. But then I realize . . . I was born first, and I helped bring up my brother and sisters and I wouldn' trade that for anything. And I lived a good life, Nicolas . . . my family is good and happy, and I had you to love. And in the end, I got one of my fondest wishes." She rubbed the circle of gold on his finger and smiled. "I get to be your wife."

He smiled, and then leaned down to kiss her lips. He put his hand on her cheek, and stroked her pale skin with his thumb. "You've had time to accept this," he whispered. "I haven't."

She nodded. "I know. I just want you to know . . . I'm happy. Maybe that will help you accept."

He kissed her forehead and shifted his gaze to the little window, with its drawn shutters. _I don't want to accept it,_ he thought. _I don't want you to die; it isn't right; it isn't fair._ He swallowed and moved his eyes back to her face. "It helps, Mari."

She smiled. "Good." She closed her eyes then, and was soon asleep, leaving Nick to lay in quiet watch over her.

* * *

The reality of her illness hit him a handful of hours later when he woke from his restless slumber to her moans of pain as she writhed in her sleep. Immediately he jumped off the bed, terrified that he was hurting her, but when she didn't calm down, he shook her, placing his hand on her face.

"What's wrong, Maribel?"

She was holding her midsection, a pained expression on her face. "It hurts," she cried, and gestured to the side of the bed, but he didn't understand. "Nicky, it hurts. . . ."

"I'm sorry, Mari – I'm sorry – I'll go get a nurse, just hold on!"

He ran to the nurses' station for help. The nurse at the desk took one look at his panicked expression and ran into Maribel's room. She started asking questions, and put her hand on Maribel's stomach to feel around as much as she could, given her patient's agitation. Then she smoothed back the lacy cuff of Maribel's dress to check her IV, and turned her attention to a machine at Maribel's bedside.

Nick put his hand on her head and waited with his heart in his throat for the nurse to say something. Maribel reached for his hand with her free one, and he squeezed it, and then knelt at her bedside.

The nurse brushed her curly dark locks off of her shoulder to turn and speak to her patient. "Okay, Maribel . . . I think you'll be all right in just a few minutes. It looks like it's been a while since you had any pain medication."

Nick let out a long breath. Her frantic gesturing to the bedside made sense now; she was trying to get him to control her morphine drip. He dropped his head and kissed her hand.

"Just try to relax," continued the nurse. "I'm going to just let that work for a few more minutes, and then I'll be back to help you change."

Maribel nodded, her worried brow starting to relax, and the nurse left the room. With a shaking hand Nick stroked her cheek and her hair until her breathing and features were more calm. "Is it better?"

She nodded and opened her eyes. "Yes, it's getting better."

He smiled at her. "You scared me," he said.

"Sorry," she replied, her eyelids blinking slowly. "I forgot I can control it. Too much excitement for one day." Nick chuckled and stroked her cheek again; she reached up and took his hand, and then kissed each of his fingers.

The nurse came back into the room then, and helped her change out of her dress and back into a hospital gown. Then they were settled again, her tucked neatly into the bed and he on top of the covers, cradling her in his arms. "Nicolas?" she whispered once they were alone.

"Yes, Mari?"

"That's a beautiful dress. I don' think I could have picked better myself."

"You wanted a big white dress," he reminded her.

She laughed a little. "Everyone wanted a big white dress ten years ago," she said. "That one is perfect for right here and right now."

"I'm glad you liked it," he said. "It looked lovely on you."

She yawned. "Is it mine to keep?"

"Of course," he replied.

"Will you make sure my sisters get it?"

He creased his brow. "Your sisters . . . Maribel, do you want me to call your mom?" He moved to get up. "Jesus, why didn't I think of this before?"

"No, Nicolas," she whispered, and it stilled him. "Mami tell Papi not to call until after."

"Things have taken a slightly different turn than you expected," he countered. "I'm sure she'd want to know you're safe and you're not alone."

Maribel shook her head. "No, she was very specific. Not to worry, Nicolas." She yawned again. "You'll make sure my sisters get the dress?"

He settled back on the bed. "Yes," he promised. She was quiet for a moment longer, and soon he heard the slow, deep breaths of her slumber. His stomach growled loudly, and he realized that it had been a long while since he'd eaten anything.

_She's asleep for now_, he thought. Since his own attempts at sleep were turning out to be futile, and Maribel seemed comfortable, he figured it might be all right if he took the opportunity to get a shower and something to eat. He waited until the nurse came back in to check her vitals.

"Do you think she'll be okay for a while if I go get some dinner?"

The nurse nodded as she made her notes. "Yeah, she'll be fine," she replied. "I don't think she'll wake for a while, but if she does, I'll let her know where you are."

Nick nodded and buried his nose in Maribel's hair, leaving a kiss on her temple.

"What's your name?"

"It's Nick," he replied, and looked up at the nurse.

"You just got married," she said.

Nick nodded. "Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, we did."

The nurse sighed. "My name's Claire; I'll be here until seven. I'm um. . . . I'm going to have to ask you to take off her ring, Nick."

He scowled. "Why?"

Claire approached the bed and lifted Maribel's hand. "Her extremities are pretty swollen," she said. "I'm afraid if you don't take it off now, we'll have to cut it off."

Nick sighed in resignation and looked away. "All right," he conceded. He closed his eyes and apologized softly into Maribel's ear, and then reached over to wiggle the gold band off of her finger. It occurred to him then that when he'd put it on, not six hours ago, he hadn't had to wiggle it at all. "Can she wear it around her neck?"

Claire was about to say no, but thought better of it. "Yeah, that should be okay, as long as you have a chain that's long enough."

Nick nodded. "Okay. Is there anything that's open at this time of night?"

Claire smiled. "This is Las Vegas," she said. "Everything's open this time of night." She patted his leg and left the room.

He stayed still for another moment or two, and then slipped off the bed. He re-arranged the blankets so she was covered. When he stepped back to look at her, the gold ring still in his hand, it occurred to him that as long as he'd known her, she'd always worn a crucifix, and it wasn't around her neck. He poked around the room until he found the bag where her personal effects had been put when she arrived, and in that bag, he found the necklace.

He put the ring on the chain and then fastened the chain around her neck. He kissed her forehead and stepped back, and tried not to think of the fact that it was, essentially, their wedding night. But as he walked away, he thought of another wedding night, a lifetime ago, when he and Maribel had made one of his favorite memories.

* * *

_August 1987_

"Nicolas, this is the most boring wedding I've ever been to."

Nick was dancing with Maribel to a slow song, stuffed into the tuxedo his mother had insisted he wear to usher at his cousin's wedding. He wrinkled his brow at her. "What's wrong with it?"

"A wedding is a celebration," she replied. "Two families get together to celebrate the making of a new family. I don' see any celebration; I see polite chit-chat. No one is singing or laughing. It's too quiet."

He smiled. "You always think my family's stuff is too quiet."

"It is," she proclaimed. "There are not nearly enough people here. And this, what we are doing? This is not dancing, Nicolas."

Nick laughed at her expression. "No?"

"Not even close." She shook her head. "No . . . when I get married there will be people and flowers and Mariachis . . . so we can _actually dance_ . . . and a big white dress. And you in a sombrero."

"Good thing you're shorter than me. We wouldn't be able to get close enough to kiss – big hat, big dress. . . ."

"Who says you'll be the groom?" she teased.

"You _know_ I'll be the groom," he replied.

She laughed a little, and he pulled her a little closer, conscious of his parents' watchful eyes. His own eyes caught his brother's; he was dancing with Missy, his new girlfriend. Nick nodded in acknowledgement, and Billy granted him a smirk before he turned back to Missy and whispered something in her ear that caused her to laugh and look over her shoulder at Nick.

Maribel watched the tips of Nick's ears turn pink and his expression turn sour. She sighed as he stiffened. "Nicolas . . . you have to let that go."

"No I don't."

"Yes, Nicky, you _do_." She made him meet her eyes then, and she managed to soften him a little with her look. "There's no point in starting a fight at your poor cousin's wedding. It'll just get you in trouble and make everyone uncomfortable."

He leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Okay," he said. Then he looked up to see his father standing smilingly next to them. He stopped dancing.

"Hey, Cisco."

"Pancho," said Bill cursorily, and held out his hand. "Miss Maribel, may I?"

Maribel smiled and placed her hand in Bill's. "Sorry Nicky," she replied, and his father swept his girlfriend away. Nick smiled and watched them a moment, and then went back to the table where his family was seated. His mother was there, watching the dance floor, and he kissed her cheek as he sat down next to her.

"You know, Nicky," she said as she smiled at her youngest son, "your dad really likes Miss Maribel."

Nick's smile deepened. "I know," he replied. "She's pretty great."

Jillian grinned. "She is. I think she's good for you – she keeps you from getting too riled up over the stupid things your brother says to push your buttons."

"He's not the only one who pushes my buttons," said Nick. "I think his girlfriend might be a professional button-pusher. Probably why they get along so well." He sipped his glass of flat Coke, made a face, and set it down again. "What do you think of Missy?"

"Oh, I think Billy likes her very much," replied Jillian, looking out on the dance floor.

Her son paused a moment before he said anything. "You didn't answer my question."

Jillian turned her smile back to Nick. "I know," was all she said, which caused Nick to smile wider. He turned his attention back to his dancing father and girlfriend, who he already knew he loved.

When the song ended, Bill escorted Maribel off the floor and right to him. "Pancho, she's a lovely girl."

Nick smiled. "I know she is, sir."

"Why don't y'all go on," he said. "Nothin' much is going to happen around here. Go catch a movie or somethin' – school starts in a couple of weeks, and then there won't be time."

Ready to pounce on his father's offer, Nick turned to Maribel. "Would you like to?"

"I'd love to," she replied with a smile.

Nick and Maribel said goodnight to his parents, and then his newly-married cousin, and then the handful of his relatives who caught them before they were able to leave the country club. Once they were settled in the cab of his truck, Nick took Maribel's hand and kissed it as they drove away.

"What movie do you want to see?" he asked as he navigated toward the theater.

"I don' want to see a movie," she replied.

"No?"

She smiled and shook her head, looking up at him. "No."

He smirked. "Barn?" She grinned and bit her lip, and that answered his question.

They chatted and held hands as Nick drove, and when they got to the ranch they passed by the house and walked in the semi-darkness to the barn. Nick, a junior in high school, had just been granted a spot on the varsity football team, and he was excited about it even if it meant that he'd be in full gear on the sidelines, rather than with her and his friends in the bleachers.

"Probably won't play much," he said as they attained their usual spot in the hay loft, settled in the clean blankets he kept there. "But next year I will." She smiled and leaned in to kiss him, and when she moved to straddle his lap he ran his hands up her sides and into her hair. She broke their kiss and smiled down at him. "You're beautiful," he said.

Her cheeks turned pink. "I love you, Nicolas."

He tried to pull her down for another kiss, but she leaned to the side and reached for her purse. She rummaged around a moment, and then sat back up. He looked at her curiously, and she kissed him slowly as she reached for his hay-dusted hand.

He looked down at the little foil packet when she broke their kiss, and back up at her. "I thought . . . I thought you wanted to wait."

"I did," she replied, and looked away a moment. "But . . . I can't. It's two more years until we graduate from high school and another four until college. I can't wait that long and I know you don' want to."

"I don't," he agreed readily.

Maribel met his gaze again. "I know you love me," she said. "I trust you."

He smiled and felt his whole body flush. "Are you sure, Maribel? Really sure?"

"Yes," she whispered, holding his face between her hands.

When he pulled her down to kiss, there was a heightened fervor in his movements which stemmed from gratitude and relief as much as it stemmed from anticipation and nerves.

She was shy about being naked in front of him, despite his repeated reassurances of her beauty. He kissed her everywhere and let his tongue venture where it dared. They both gasped when their bare chests touched, surprised at the intensity of the sensation. He fumbled clumsily with the condom before she giggled and handled it for him. He liked her soft hands on his body.

"Go on, Nicky," she whispered when he hesitated. Her voice, breathy and sweet, would reverberate in his ears forever.

"I don't want to hurt you, Maribel."

"Well," she replied cheekily, "unless you want someone else to do it, you don' have a choice."

His brow contracted. "I don't want anyone else to touch you," he growled.

She leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "Then do what you have to do. I'm not a sissy girl; I can take it. I'm not going to cry."

He nodded. "Okay." His agitation melting, he dipped his head to kiss her again.

Nick was gentle and mindful of her reaction, and let her guide him. He shivered with the pleasure and the pressure, keeping their chests pressed closely together. He held his cheek close to hers and answered her quick breathing with growls of her name, calls for God, and whispers of how wonderful, how incredible it felt.

Unfortunately for Nick, however, when the two of them had begun their journey on the Stokes ranch, they were both virgins, which meant that this first foray into physical love wasn't going to last long. Nick was embarrassed when it was over because he didn't exactly know how to proceed. He sensed immediately that something had changed between them, he knew that Maribel probably hadn't enjoyed it as much as he had, and then there was the issue of the mess he'd made.

Making an attempt to catch his breath, Nick rested his forehead on her collarbone. He felt her hands stroke his hair and looked up to see her smiling face. Still full of nerves, they laughed together, and he kissed her soundly, then he very carefully moved to lay next to her.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered, and laid her head on his chest.

He paused a moment and hoped she'd say something more. When she didn't, he cautiously ventured, "Um. . . . Did you like it?"

She smiled and kissed his chin. "It hurt," she replied. At his deflated expression, she put her hand on his cheek again, and sought to reassure him. "I'm fine now."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want to hurt you."

Maribel kissed his lips. "I'm fine," she repeated. "And it was nice after that. And next time, it won' hurt."

He smiled. "So there'll be a next time?" he asked, and when she bit her lip and grinned up at him he relaxed and pulled her closer.

They lay together in the hay loft a while, whispering together about nothing in particular. When they knew they needed to move they rose and awkwardly dressed. Maribel found her purse and handed him the rest of the box of condoms, terrified of being caught with them. He tucked them away in the blankets and helped her down from the loft, and then guided her through the darkness back to the house.

Nick made popcorn and they moved to the living room to watch TV. They were settled on the couch a while before Nick spoke.

"Mari?"

"Hm?"

"What happens if you get pregnant?"

"My father will kill you," she replied plaintively. "And then _your_ father will kill you."

"You started it," he protested, his mouth full of popcorn. "Why don't _you_ get killed?"

"I'd be expecting," she said. "Silly boy. No one would harm a pregnant lady – and frankly, Nicolas, it isn't like you said no." He threw popcorn at her; she giggled and threw some back. "Besides, your mother would probably be happy, the way she keeps begging your sisters for grandchildren."

Nick laughed a little. "You underestimate Jillian," he replied. "If you got pregnant your dad would have to fight her for the right to kill me first. I mean, I know she wants grandchildren, but I don't want to give them to her."

Maribel looked slightly alarmed for a moment. "You don' want children?"

"Well, sure I do," replied Nick. "But just . . . not now. There's so much for us to do before that all happens. Graduation, college, find a real job . . . all that."

She kissed his popcorn-salted chin. "I bet you make beautiful babies."

He chuckled and didn't want to talk about babies. "Maybe. I guess we'll find out, some day."

"But not today." She smiled up at him, and he pulled her in close.

When his parents found them they were still on the couch in the living room, the television flickering over their sleeping features.

"I thought they were gonna go see a movie," said Jillian as she turned on a lamp light.

Bill stood with his hands in his pockets, looking over the couple. Maribel was leaning into Nick's chest, her legs and dress tucked up on the couch, covered with his jacket. Nick's arms were around her, the first three buttons of his shirt undone, and his tie was on the coffee table. Bill shook his head.

"I think we've met our daughters-in-law, Jilly," he said, and sighed. "I just wish I liked the other one as much as I like this one."

A slow smile crept across Nick's face; he couldn't help it.

His father chuckled. "Get her home, Pancho – it's late."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

_September 1997_

He checked out of his hotel, knowing Fischer would give him an earful for the extra day they'd tacked on, even though he paid for it himself. He was obliged to change rooms, and once that was done he showered and changed into the only clean outfit he had. Then he grabbed a sandwich and went back to the hospital.

Maribel was still asleep when he returned, roughly an hour later. He climbed up into the bed and lay next to her, taking her hand in his. It was early Wednesday morning; being away from Maribel and the stark reality of her condition had Nick's thoughts trained in an altogether unproductive direction.

He'd never been able to shake the feeling that his brother Billy was responsible for Maribel's departure, and his old anger was starting to surface again. This time, however, it was worse – if Billy had minded his own business, Maribel would've stayed. She wouldn't have had any reason to put off seeing a doctor. They – most likely – would have been married for five years at this point, and her condition, although inevitable, would be treatable.

It was with these thoughts swimming through his head that Maribel looked up at him again. She touched his cheek.

"You're angry," she whispered.

"Not at you," he said, continuing to look at the wall.

"Then what is it?"

"Billy."

"Why are you angry with your brother?" She pulled his chin down so that he had to look at her.

Her eyes were barely open. Her face was so pale. He drew a deep breath, trying to ward off sudden tears. "Because it's his fault . . . this. You. . . . And I didn't – I couldn't find you. . . . What kind of an investigator am I-"

"Nicolas, stop." She laid her finger against his lips.

"Maribel-"

"_No_, Nicolas," she insisted. "We do what we feel is right and necessary at the time we do it. Only God can do more."

"But I-"

"You are not God, Nicolas." Her eyes drooped closed. "It doesn' help anyone to dwell on the past."

Nick squeezed his eyes shut and held her hand against his cheek. "You've always been too good for me."

She smiled and opened her eyes again. "No, I just balance you out."

He kept her hand pressed to his face, but opened his own eyes. He wanted to ask what he was supposed to do when she was gone, but couldn't speak.

"Nicolas, I love you."

He smiled and tears spilled from his eyes. "I love you, too."

* * *

She slept on and off. During her periods of wakefulness, which came less frequently as the day went on, they talked about their families, about Nick's job and about old friends. They remembered their time together and laughed over memories. Nurses would come into the room and kick him off the bed, but once they were gone he resumed his position and eventually, they stopped asking him to move.

Around three o'clock on Thursday morning, Maribel stirred. "Nicolas?" she whispered, barely audible.

"I'm here, Mari," replied Nick, who had been falling in and out of restless sleep next to her.

"Please don' be mad at me," she said. "I never meant to hurt anyone."

Gently, Nick stroked her hair and meant it when he said, "I'm not angry at you, Maribel."

She was quiet for a while, trying not to fall back asleep. "Do you remember the day we met?"

Nick smiled. "The day we met properly or the day I brought Carlos home from the ball field?"

"Yes, that day," she whispered, smirking. "You call me wetback."

He grinned. "Not directly." She chuckled again quietly, and he rested his head against hers. "I never thought of you like that," he whispered. "I only said it because you called me gringo. I only said it out of anger."

"I never thought of you like a gringo," she replied, her eyes drooping closed. "I was mad at Carlos that day; he make Mami worry." She sighed and shifted, and smiled a little. "I never forget the look on your face. . . . 'You call us gringos, we call you wetbacks.' You were so angry."

"Because a pretty Latina insulted me," he replied honestly. She chuckled next to him. "But everything changed after that day."

"Happiest time of my life," she whispered.

"Mine too," he whispered back. "Te amo, Señora Stokes."

Maribel smiled up at him and professed her love, and she soon fell asleep. Nick stayed with her, cradling her in her bleak hospital room, until she died a few hours later.


	13. Chapter 13

Having just returned to the crime lab from the field, Warrick Brown stood at his locker, shedding his jacket so he could head up to the layout room to process the evidence he and Catherine had just collected. When he closed the locker door, Captain Brass' sudden appearance startled him.

"Hello, Warrick," he said brightly.

Warrick glared down at him for a moment. "What do you got for me, Brass?"

"I just want to have a chummy walk with you to the layout room," replied Brass with his sarcastic smile. "Gilbert's always going on about how you and I would get along if we just chatted. So let's chat. And walk." Warrick eyed him warily, but followed. "I need you to send the evidence from the Serrano case to Houston County," began Brass, once they were out in the hall.

"What there is of it, sure," agreed Warrick. "I can't imagine what we have will be useful."

"Well, when I finally got ahold of Captain Fischer – you know, your new Texan friend's boss?"

"Nick Stokes, you mean?" asked Warrick.

"Yeah, that's his name. Anyway, I told him what happened, about the girl, and what the kid said about things being out of his hands. Fischer went on for ten minutes about how Stokes is some judge's brat and always gets his way, about how he was probably going to have someone fix somethin' so they'd get out of the whole thing."

They'd reached the layout room then. Brass stayed just inside the door while Warrick snapped on a pair of latex gloves. "I don't know, Brass . . . he didn't seem like that kind of guy to me."

Brass shrugged. "Well, you know me. I don't like it when I think someone is tryin' to pull one over. So I called up the Houston County DA, and I told her what I knew."

"What'd she say?"

"Well, the kid told her everything. So I told her what Fischer said, and she filled in the blanks. Apparently, your buddy Stokes _is_ a judge's kid. A judge Fischer doesn't like too well."

"Those would be the people he knows, then," said Warrick, thinking back on one of Nick's last comments.

"Yeah, but that's not all. His mom was a defense attorney. His brother is also an attorney – and the DA herself said she's a family friend of the Stokeses."

"I still don't think he's the type of guy who'd ask for favors. He was pretty clear about not havin' any control over it when he talked to her."

"Yeah," agreed Brass. "But again – you know me."

"You're thinkin' it's all for show?"

"I was thinking that, yeah. So I made some more phone calls. He was a cop, so I called the captain he worked for. Guy's got nothin' but praise for Stokes. So I asked about his dad, and he said he wasn't a fan, but when Stokes went CSI he left him with an open invitation to come back."

"Pretty high praise," said Warrick.

"That's what I thought. So then I asked _that_ captain about Fischer, and he basically said Fischer's an ass and he's surprised Stokes is still workin' for him."

"Yeah, Nick said somethin' like that," offered Warrick as Catherine came into the room with the evidence box.

"So I was thinkin' – maybe Fischer wouldn't mind unloading him. We've had this open position for months; we need extra hands. He seems like he knows what he's doin' – I checked into his record; he's a pretty solid investigator."

Warrick lifted his brows as Catherine looked on. "Are you asking for my opinion?"

Brass smiled. "We're just having a friendly chat, Warrick."

"Well, I'll give it to you anyway. I'd work with him. You gonna make him an offer?"

Brass was about to reply that he was when Catherine spoke up. "Are you guys talking about the guy from Texas?"

"Yeah, why?"

"He's in the lobby. I thought he was waiting for you."

Brass immediately left the room. Warrick removed his gloves and asked Catherine for a moment; when she granted it, he followed.

* * *

Nick called Father Frank first, because he realized he didn't know what he was supposed to do next. Unbeknownst to Nick, the priest had been in contact with Father Ramirez at St. Cecelia in Los Angeles, and he was prepared to let Maria Serrano know of her daughter's passing in person. Nick thanked Father Frank for everything he'd done, and was comforted to know that someone Maribel's mother knew and trusted would be able to deliver the news.

Then he called Jenny Baker again, so that she could tell Ramón. He considered calling his parents or his sisters, but considering they didn't know he was married, news of his wife's death would only lead to a long telephone conversation that he simply didn't have the energy for.

The hospital needed to know where they should send Maribel's body, and he didn't have the foggiest clue. Working where he did, however, he knew who to ask. It was mid-morning when he entered the Las Vegas crime lab, and he approached the frumpy secretary a little nervously.

She grinned at him. "Looking for Warrick?"

He shook his head. "No, ma'am. . . . I was wonderin' if I could speak to one of your medical examiners."

Judy gave him a bit of a blank stare, and then nodded. "Sure. . . . Sure. Let me just see if Dr. Robbins is still here."

Nick took a seat. He looked down at his hands, at the ring Maribel had put on his finger. He had no real idea what kind of hours Brass and Warrick kept, but in case they happened upon him, he didn't want to have to answer any uncomfortable questions. Reluctantly, he pulled the ring off and stored it in his pocket. He nervously waited a few more minutes, and then an older gentleman hobbling a bit on crutches approached him. "Mr. Stokes?"

Nick rose and offered his hand for the gentleman to shake. "Yeah, hi . . . it's Nick."

"I'm Al Robbins," he said, and then leaned on his crutches again. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir. . . ." He paused a long moment, trying to formulate his request. "It's a really long story . . . but I just lost. . . ." He paused to clear his throat. "I just lost a loved one, sir, and I'm not from around here . . . and I have to send her somewhere, you know, to get her ready to fly home for her funeral." He looked away and cleared his throat again, and then looked back at Dr. Robbins. "Do you . . . can you give me the names of a couple places that are pretty, you know . . . reputable?"

Dr. Robbins tilted his head. "Didn't the hospital give you names?"

Nick laughed nervously. "Yeah . . . they gave me _every_ name." He paused a moment, and then ventured, "It's just . . . I'm a criminalist in Dallas – I just know that sometimes y'all do exhumations – so you'd know who does a good job – and I just want . . . she was sick for a long time, y'know? And I just want someone who'll do a good job and be respectful." He took a breath and knew he was rambling, but couldn't stop himself. "She's Catholic – they have that whole . . . sanctity of the body . . . thing."

"I see," said the doctor. "Well, when I die, I'll be sent to Spring Hill. Mark Jefferson is the undertaker there; he'll take good care of your friend."

Nick offered his hand again, and Dr. Robbins shook. "Thank you, sir – I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome. I'm sorry for your loss."

Nick let out a breath as the doctor walked away, thankful that the awkward conversation was over, and then heard Captain Brass' voice behind him.

"Hey, Tex!"

He turned, his brow lifted, to find Brass, with Warrick Brown in tow, headed his way. Grateful that he'd thought to take off his ring, he walked a few steps to meet them. "Hello, Captain."

"How's your girl?" asked Brass.

Nick drew in a breath before he answered. "She, uh . . . she passed away at about six o'clock this morning."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Warrick, and Nick nodded his thanks.

"Ramón's being held in Dallas for now. The DA says he'll be charged next week."

"So she _is_ gonna charge him?" asked Brass.

Nick nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I know what I said a few days ago, and I still don't think he's gonna get much in the way of a sentence, but . . ." Nick shrugged. "Can't get in the way of the process."

Brass nodded. "That's right. Listen, Stokes. . . ." Brass put his hand on Nick's arm and guided him to one of the seats in the lobby. "Have a seat."

Warrick took the opportunity to speak up. "Hey, I'm gonna let you guys have some privacy – don't leave 'til I get back, though, okay?"

"Sure," replied Nick, confused, and he raised his hand in salutation as Warrick walked away. Then he turned back to Brass, and both took a seat.

"How do you like my buddy Brown?" asked the captain, gesturing toward Warrick's retreating form.

Nick tilted his head and replied, "Warrick? He seems like a good guy. He was helpful."

Brass nodded. "You know, he and I don't always see eye to eye, but when he's focused, he's a good investigator."

"Yeah, seems like it," said Nick. "But I'm guessing you didn't want to chat about Warrick, sir."

"I don't. Listen, kid – I talked to your captain yesterday."

"_Christ_," mumbled Nick as he dropped his head. He rubbed his face a moment, and then looked up at Brass. "What did Captain Fischer have to say?"

"He told me you were a brat and then complained about your dad," replied Brass.

Nick nodded and sighed. "My dad's a judge," he explained. "He's not a fan, but I'm guessing he made that clear to you."

"He did," said Brass.

"And I'm guessing you also spoke to my DA."

"Why would you guess that?"

"How do you know my DA's a woman?"

Brass smiled. "Are you good at your job, Stokes?"

"Yes," replied Nick. "I know I'm not far off a rookie, sir, but I love my job and I _am_ good at it."

Brass nodded and paused a moment, taking in the young man's features. True, he was young, and maybe still a little green, but he had confidence, and he knew what he was doing. "Listen, kid," said Brass, "I've had a graveyard shift position open for almost a year. I mean, I get these fresh-faced kids in here, and they come in thinking the work is all clinical and scientific, and then they realize how messy it is, or they can't handle the shift or the hours, and they're gone."

Nick nodded in agreement, having no idea what Brass was getting at. "Yeah, that happens in Dallas, too."

"Well, I was thinkin'," said Brass, "maybe you'd like to fill that position."

Nick furrowed his brow as he looked back at the captain. "Me? You mean. . . . Are you offering me a job?"

Brass nodded. "I know you have a lot to do in the next couple of days . . . get your girl home and laid to rest. So if you can give me your contact information – email and all that – I'll send the particulars, and give you some time to think about it. You'd be working with Warrick and Catherine – she's great – and our shift lead, Grissom . . . well, he's a little quirky, but you get used to it. And – you know – I don't give a rat's ass about your dad."

Nick stared at Brass, and then laughed a little. "That is the _last_ thing I expected."

Brass spread his hands in front of himself and grinned. "Always expect the unexpected in this job, right?"

"Yeah," replied Nick with a smile. The last four days had illustrated that rather thoroughly. "I know that's right."

"I'll let you get going," said Brass as he rose, and Nick followed suit.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "I'll need some time, but I'll be in touch." Brass nodded as Nick shook his hand, and the captain walked away. Nick sat down to wait for Warrick, less surprised than completely blown away. His initial reaction to Brass' offer was a flattered no – he had a job already – but his head was still so foggy; he really would need time to think it through.

He was staring off into space, his thoughts unfocused, when Warrick approached. Nick stood and turned toward him. "Hello again."

"Hey, man," replied Warrick. "I thought you might want this." He held out a brown paper bag.

Nick accepted it, and peeked inside. He paused, staring, and then looked up at Warrick. "This is evidence."

Warrick shrugged. "Evidence gets lost all the time."

"I can't. . . ." Nick shook his head and closed the bag, even though he really did want it.

"Yeah, you can," said Warrick. "The only thing that's evidence of is her being in the truck, and she's not going to be prosecuted. Just take it, man."

Nick sighed. "I really . . . I really appreciate this," said Nick, even though it was an inadequate sentiment, as he opened the bag again, and let his fingertips slip over his well-worn football jersey.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Warrick told Nick sincerely.

"Thanks, man," Nick replied, his brow furrowed, as he looked up at Warrick and closed the bag. "It's odd . . . being on the receiving end of that remark."

"I bet," agreed Warrick. After a moment, he ventured, "So, did you and Brass have a nice chat?"

"Yeah – he offered me a job." Nick's voice still reflected his surprise.

Warrick grinned. "Are you gonna take it?"

"I need some time to think about it," said Nick. "I mean, all my family's in Texas, and I'd be a long way from them. But it's flattering, that's for sure."

"I hope you take it," said Warrick. "We really need the extra hands – I mean, our shift was over at seven and we'll be here until at least three. You'd fit in pretty well; it's a good group of people. Brass is prickly, but. . . ." He shrugged. "You get used to it."

Nick smiled. "I'll be in touch with him soon."

Warrick nodded and held out his hand. "I hope to see you again. Take care, man."

Nick shook his hand. "You too. Been nice workin' with you."

Warrick raised his hand in a parting wave and turned to go back to work. Nick let out a breath as Warrick left his sight, thinking that he really wouldn't mind working with guys like Warrick and Brass.

* * *

His next stop was Spring Hill Funeral Home, where he met with Mark Jefferson. Mark was much more boisterous and much less weird than he expected, and he was grateful that the undertaker was as confident and knowledgeable as he was. Nick chose an ornate cherry casket for Maribel and handed over her wedding ring and crucifix, and his jersey. He had to go shopping again, to find something for her to be buried in, and once that was done he returned to Spring Hill to deliver it, and the soft blue satin undergarments he had purchased at the bridal shop where he got her wedding dress.

Maribel would be ready, and all the arrangements would be made, by midday on Friday. With any luck, he could be in Los Angeles by Saturday afternoon.

Finally back in his hotel room, he hung up the suit he bought for his wedding, and placed it in a new garment bag along with Maribel's wedding dress. When that was done, he sighed and looked around the room. He felt empty and exhausted wished, possibly for the first time in his life, for a shot of whiskey.

The whiskey, if he'd had it, wouldn't have been to steel his nerves for the coming days – the wake, the funeral, seeing Maribel's family again. It would've been to steel his nerves for the phone call he had to make. He knew he'd waited too long. Fischer was pissed off at him for communicating through Juanita that he was taking time off – twice – but that could wait longer.

His mother, father, and two of his sisters had left voice mail for him, some of them more than once. They wanted to know where he was. He'd stalled long enough. He didn't need to wait and see what was going to happen anymore; Maribel was gone, and what was done was done. But they would want to know all the gory details, and he wasn't ready for that just yet.

With an unsteady hand, he dialed his father's office number.

"Stokes," was the sharp, impatient greeting.

"It's Nick," he said, and waited to be cussed out.

Judge Stokes wasted no time. "Where in hell are you?"

"Las Vegas," came his quiet reply.

"You scared the shit out of your mother," replied Bill, his tone lower now. "What are you doin' in Las Vegas?"

"I'm sorry, Cisco."

"You haven't even talked to your captain, Nick. You know better; what is wrong with you?"

Nick stiffened a little, and paused before he asked, "You talked to Captain Fischer?"

Bill growled. "Yeah, I talked to Captain Fischer. He gave me lip and then told me you were on vacation."

"I came here to work," clarified Nick. "I had to stay for personal reasons."

"What personal reason could you have for not telling anyone where you are?"

Nick sighed. He was twenty-six years old and still tethered to his parents.

"I'm waitin' for an answer, son."

"I can't explain it over the phone," Nick replied.

"The hell you can't! What kind of an excuse is that?"

"Okay – I don't _want_ to explain it over the phone. Cisco, I have to go to, okay? I'll be home sometime next week."

"_When_ next week?" snapped the judge.

"I don't know. When I get there, I'll call you, all right? Goodbye." He moved to hang up the phone, but heard his father's voice say his name. After a brief pause, he set the receiver back on his ear. "Yeah."

"I'm glad you're all right."

Nick sighed. "Thank you. I'll see you sometime next week."

* * *

It was early Sunday morning and raining in Los Angeles when the plane carrying Nick, and Maribel's casket, landed. Nick rode in the hearse that took her from the airport to the funeral home, where her wake would be held that evening. He was greeted there by Father Ramirez, who let him know that Maria Serrano was on her way with her family. He talked with Nick a while about the wake, and the funeral service, which would take place on Monday. They watched as the funeral director moved Maribel's casket into position just in the front of the room, and set a spray of daisies on top. When he was finished, he stepped back and asked Nick to approve his work.

It was a moment before he could; they had opened the top and he almost didn't want to look at her again. He'd been able to look when the mortician at Spring Hill had finished, but it made everything too real.

Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he finally approached. Maribel looked beautiful and peaceful and there wasn't anything he wouldn't have given at that moment to see her smile at him one last time. He reached out to touch her cheek, but it was cold and he pulled his hand back.

"I love you, Maribel Stokes," he whispered. "I'll always love you." Then his fingertips slipped over the football jersey that lay in the casket, part of it tucked into her folded hands. "Now you'll always have this godforsaken jersey," he said, smiling a little, and his fingers flitted over hers, over the gold band she wore. He reached up into the daisies on her casket and plucked one out, and put it gently in her hair, just above her right ear.

He thanked the gentlemen from the funeral home. Father Ramirez waited quietly with him for the Serranos to arrive. The priest asked about Ramón, and Nick filled him in on the details. After a few moments, a lanky young man with a goatee approached. He smiled, and it took Nick a moment to recognize him.

"Carlos?"

With a sad smile, Carlos nodded. "Hi, Nick," he said, and held his arms open.

Nick wasted no time in accepting Carlos' embrace. When they parted, Nick took a long look at him. "Man, you grew."

Carlos shrugged and grinned a little. "We all did," he said.

Then Maria appeared, and she went straight for Nick. "Oh – Niquito," she breathed, and she also enveloped him in a hug. "Thank you for bringing her home."

"You're welcome," he said. "I'm so sorry." She held him tighter and he responded in kind. "I'm so sorry, Sra. Serrano."

She patted his back and pulled away, keeping his hands in hers. "Don' be sorry," she said. "My Maribel – _your_ Maribel," she corrected with a smile, as her thumb flitted across the circle of gold on his left ring finger, "she's not in pain anymore. And for that, we have to be grateful."

Nick's eyes flooded. "I don't think I can just yet," he said. Then a hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned to see Pilar, who was three years younger than Maribel. He reached out for a hug, and had a scowl on his face when he pulled away.

"Who did _this_ to you?"

Pilar smiled through her tears and placed Nick's hand on her growing belly. "My husband," she said.

He tried to smile, but felt completely rotten. This family – with the exception of Ramón – had always treated him like one of their own. When he was with them, they counted him as brother. Why had he not done more to find them? Why had he been so easily discouraged?

"I've missed so much," he whispered.

Pilar tapped her belly. "It's a girl," she informed him. "Our little Maria Isabel."

Despite the tears this caused, he smiled widely. "Did she know?"

"Yes," confirmed Pilar with a smile.

Then someone else was hugging him, and all he knew to do was hug back. When she pulled away, he smiled at Emilia, and then reached for her sister Sofía. Juanita, now almost as tall as he was, hugged him last.

When Juanita stepped back, he wiped tears off his face with the back of his hand. "Y'all are all grown up," he said.

"So are you," said Maria, smiling and squeezing his hand. "Is Maribel ready?"

He turned to her. "Yeah . . . she's ready." He flicked his eyes to the open door of the sanctuary. "Y'all should go on."

He'd intended to keep a respectful distance from them as they looked upon Maribel, but Maria held fast to his hand and refused to let go, so he approached the casket with them. When she first saw her daughter, Maria sobbed, clinging to Carlos on her left while she maintained her grip on Nick's hand. Her daughters all crowded around to lend their own support, and draw from each other and Carlos.

When she had settled, Maria reached out to touch her daughter's cheek as tears flowed down her own. "She's so beautiful. Isn't she, Nicolas?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and swiped at a tear. "She is."

"She's at peace," said Carlos. "You can just tell. No more weakness, no more pain. She's at peace." He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and then reached for a tissue to wipe his mother's.

"She was a good sister," said Juanita, sniffling. "A good friend, and a good daughter."

Maria nodded in agreement, and was quiet another moment as she gazed upon Maribel. Nick could easily guess that she was trying to memorize her face. After a long moment, she turned to Nick, and led her family to the back of the room as she spoke. "You remember when your grandfather pass away, Nicolas?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"Maribel bring you to my house. She say, 'Mami, give this boy something to do. He making me crazy.' So I say to you one thing: Maribel always want daisies in the front of the house. And you said nothing to me – you just nod your head, you go to get a shovel, you go to the store and get more dirt and daisies than you need. Two days you work, taking out old plants and putting in new plants, picking rock – you even make a pretty border with all those rocks. Just for my Maribel. And I knew from that day, you would be a good husband for her." She stopped, and reached up to pat his face. "I wasn' wrong."

Nick shook his head and looked down, but could say nothing to Maria's compliment.

"Now," she continued, "you are going to stay with us, as long as you need to. I will keep your hands busy until you go home to your family."

"I haven't told my family yet," whispered Nick. He couldn't look up at her. "I haven't told them anything."

She tilted his chin up and looked into his eyes. "Ah. . . . Niquito." She shook her head and sighed. "What to do with such a stubborn boy?"

Despite himself, Nick grinned. "You're no stranger to stubborn boys, Sra. Serrano."

"Or stubborn girls," she replied with a chuckle. "But no more Señora from you, Nicolas. You call me Mami." Tears filled his eyes and he nodded, looking down again. "We will celebrate my beautiful Maribel's life together, like a family. And when you are ready, you go home to yours."

Nick reached down and hugged Maria – his mother-in-law, he thought suddenly – grateful that she and her children were there. For a little while, at least, he wouldn't feel quite so alone.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a review; they make a writer's day!**


	14. Chapter 14

First I want to thank elianatcb for her help with the Spanish language and Mexican culture throughout this story. Your help is so much appreciated!

Also, I wanted to thank SmokeyTV for her help with this chapter, hashing out details and reassuring me when I needed it.

You ladies rock!

This is the last chapter of my story. I hope you have all enjoyed travelling this road with Nick as much as I have. Thank you all so much for your reviews and favorites; they all mean a great deal.

* * *

The wake that evening and the funeral the following day went by in a blur, and before Nick knew it the mourners had gone and it was just Maria, her children, and himself at Maribel's grave as they lowered her casket. Maria took a fistful of dirt and tossed it into the grave; Nick followed suit. He watched as the grave was filled and sod was laid on top. Once the temporary grave marker was set in place, he walked back to the church, where Maribel's family waited.

True to her word, in the next handful of days, Maria kept him busy; he helped her cook, he helped her organize and de-clutter, he mowed the lawn, weeded her garden, and any other odd job she could think of. When she wasn't filling his hands with work, she asked him to walk with her, or sit with her while she folded laundry. She would talk about Maribel, and tell him stories about when she was a little girl, or remind him of the time he spent with their family when they were still in Texas. He listened reluctantly at first, just to be respectful of his hostess, but soon enough he found that her stories of Maribel put a smile on his face, even if sometimes the smile was accented with tears. He found himself asking about the past nine years, and with Maria's help he painted a picture in his mind, not of himself with a pretty house and a pretty wife, as Maribel had asked him to, but of Maribel herself. It was a picture he already knew well, only in his mind it was a worn and faded pencil drawing. Maria's stories made the lines become sharper, and she filled in rich, bold color. Maribel had always been a vibrant and positive young woman, as long as he'd known her; moving to California, and her illness, hadn't had an impact on that, even as she had come to accept her mortality.

After dinner on the Thursday following her funeral, a full week since she'd died, he asked to see photos of Maribel.

"Didn' you see what we had at the funeral?"

"I couldn't look," he admitted.

She shook her head. "So stubborn, Niquito."

He nodded and laughed a little, and his eyes filled. "Yeah," he replied. "I know."

She rose, and then returned with album upon album of family photos, and then kissed his head and retired for the evening. He sat on the living room floor to look through them, and before long Sofia and Juanita came downstairs to join him, and serve as guides. He was surprised to see himself in several photos, and the girls entertained him by talking about their perspective on Nick and Maribel's relationship.

"I do remember y'all giggling a lot whenever I kissed Maribel. Or held her hand. Or smiled at her . . . or touched her hair. Or sat next to her. You were just giggly."

"But you were so cute," said Sofia. "I think Emilia still might have a crush on you."

Nick said nothing, but turned pink.

"Look at you blush," said Juanita, and poked his shoulder. "You're still cute."

"Oh, stop it now," he said, even as his blush deepened.

They continued to chuckle at his expense a moment, but then Juanita turned serious. "Hey, Nick?"

He turned toward her. "Yeah?"

"Speaking of Emilia. . . ."

"Juanita, Emilia te dijo que no dijeras nada," snapped Sofia.

"Emilia es una idiota," replied Juanita, scowling at her sister.

"Umm . . . guys?" said Nick, a little amused. "I speak Spanish, you know."

Sofia blushed, and then laughed. "Sorry, Nick."

He shook his head and told them not to worry about it. "What's goin' on with Emilia? Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Sofia assured him. "She's really good, actually. But she. . . ." She let out a breath. "She's getting married. She didn't want to make a big deal of it – they decided, after Maribel left, that they'd just go somewhere and do it quietly."

"Oh. So that tall fella . . . Lucas. . . ." Nick was a little hurt, recalling the moment when Emilia introduced Lucas as her boyfriend. "But that's good news. Why didn't she want me to know?"

"I think she just didn't want you to think she was trying to overshadow Maribel's passing," said Sofia. "When she left, we didn't expect she'd come back to us. And not many people know yet, anyway. It's all happened so quickly – they don't know where they're going . . . I don't think she even has a dress yet."

Nick looked up at Juanita, his eyes round. "She doesn't?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Get her over here," he said, rising to his feet. "I have something for her."

The girls exchanged confused looks and then rose. "I don't know if she's up still," said Sofia.

"Just give her a call and get her over here," said Nick, and he ran upstairs to Carlos' old room, where he was staying.

Having no other course of action, Juanita called Emilia. She was confused and a little reluctant, but she appeared a few minutes later, yawning.

Nick was just coming down the stairs with a garment bag in hand when she entered the house. He laid the bag over the back of a chair and gave her a hug. "Juanita told me you're engaged," he said after he pulled away.

Emilia looked a little sheepish. "I am," she replied. "It's not that I didn't want you to know, Nick. We just didn't want to make a big deal out of it. . . . And Maribel knew, of course – but we never expected-"

"It's okay," he was quick to assure her. "It's all right. Juanita says you don't have a dress yet."

"I don't," confirmed Emilia, shaking her head.

"I, um. . . . I got a dress for Maribel, you know."

"You mean the one she was buried in?" asked Emilia, confused. "It was beautiful, Nick. But . . . she was buried in it."

"No, I mean a wedding dress," he said, and then he picked up the garment bag and unzipped it. "I didn't want her to get married in a hospital gown. And afterward, she asked me to make sure you girls got it." Having removed the dress from the bag, he held it up. "I guess this is why. Maybe she thought you'd like it."

Emilia looked from the dress to Nick and back again. "Maribel wore this?"

"Just for a couple of hours," he said. "She liked it."

"It's beautiful." Emilia stepped forward and fingered the sleeve, her eyes wide. "You'd let me have it?"

Nick nodded. "That's what Maribel wanted."

Emilia smiled. "Can I try it on?"

Nick chuckled. "Yeah, of course," he said, and handed her the dress. She stole away with it, up the stairs, and her sisters followed.

"I'm going to go get Mama," Nick heard a few minutes later, and then Maria was coming down the stairs in her robe and slippers, with Juanita and Sofia bouncing down in her wake.

"What is it?" she asked groggily of Nick. "You're not leaving?"

He shook his head. "No, ma'am," he said, amused at the younger girls. "I was just-"

"Here she comes!" burst Sofia, shushing him.

Emilia came down the stairs with a big smile on her face and tears flowing down her cheeks. "It's perfect," she said when she reached them. "It fits perfectly and everything."

"Oh Dios mío," whispered Maria, covering her mouth. "Emilia, it's beautiful."

Nick wrapped his arm around Maria's shoulders and squeezed. Then he went to the garment bag and took out the shoes, which he set on the floor, and the veil, which he handed to Emilia. "The shoes didn't fit her," he said. "And honestly . . . I don't think she liked the veil."

Emilia took the veil and held it up. She tried not to laugh, but was unsuccessful. "Sorry, Nicky," she said. "It's just so old-fashioned."

Maria scolded her daughter and Nick turned pink, but he couldn't help but laugh with her.

"But you like the dress?"

"Yes," she said, looking down at it again. "I love it, Nick – it's beautiful. And technically I think it counts as something old and something borrowed." Then she hugged him tight. "You'll come?" she asked into his ear. "I don't know where we're going yet – we might go to Mexico – but will you come to my wedding?"

A tear slid down his cheek and into Maribel's dress. "Yes," he whispered. "Wherever it is, I'll come."

"Gracias, Nicolas. Muchas gracias."

"De nada," he replied.

* * *

Nick couldn't sleep that night, but that was nothing new. During previous nights it was because his thoughts were racing; he second-guessed his actions regarding Maribel and her departure, he wondered if he could have done more, if he should have insisted that they leave together that night and go to Las Vegas. That night, however, his head was completely empty, except for the pictures he'd just seen playing like a slideshow. His eyes simply refused to shut.

Around one o'clock he gave up, and rose to turn the light on. Maria had insisted that he take her crucifix following the funeral service, and he'd kept it with him since. He rose to find his jeans and pulled the crucifix out of the pocket. He let it rest in his hand a moment and fingered it, then brought it to his lips to kiss before he put it around his own neck. He also kept her wedding ring in that pocket, and he took it out and set it on his pinkie finger. Then he slid the jeans on and sat back down on the bed, looking around the room.

Carlos' room was decorated a lot like his had been at home, except where Nick had had posters of baseball and football players, Carlos had soccer stars; where Nick had a Texas flag, Carlos had a Mexican one. Nick suspected that if he opened Carlos' closet door, the back of it would also have a poster of a scantily-clad model on a beach or the hood of a car.

Carlos had his own room because he was the only boy; the girls were always in various states of sharing the other two rooms. Once Pilar and Emilia had moved out, Maribel also had her own room, which according to Maria, she didn't necessarily like. Nick had been offered Maribel's room to stay in while he was with the Serranos, which he'd declined, thinking it would just be too much. But he could listen to stories about her from Maria and her children, and he'd been brave enough that night to look at pictures of her. So he rose, and padded down the hall quietly to her room.

He laid his palm against the door a moment, closing his eyes. Then, before he could stop himself, he turned the knob, and flicked on the light.

It was small and warm. There were still two beds, but he knew that Maribel would've wanted the one closer to the window. He moved into the room and ran his hand reverently along the quilt before he sat down. There was a lamp on the bedside table, and books – some fiction, some history, some about lupus – mostly in Spanish. And there were photos everywhere. Some of the people in them looked vaguely familiar, and he recognized a handful of them. He spotted two photo albums, and reached greedily for them.

He looked through them slowly, much more slowly than he'd allowed himself to do with Sofia and Juanita. He hadn't wanted to bore them, and wanted them to keep talking about her, the child she was before he knew her and the young woman she was after they'd moved to California. When he was done, his face and t-shirt were soaked with silently-shed tears, and he put the albums back gently. Then at last he saw, right next to the lamp on the bedside table, a picture frame turned slightly toward the wall. He thought he might have bumped it as he explored Maribel's photographs, and reached out to turn it toward him.

His own fifteen-year-old face greeted him, smiling delightedly, with his cheek pressed against Maribel's. Her hair was adorned with a crown of daisies and he could see the baby blue ruffle of the neckline of her Quinceañera gown. She was also smiling – laughing, Nick remembered – her eyes bright, not a care in the world, the future in front of her as clear as anything.

With a shaking hand Nick picked up the picture frame and held it to his chest. Then he laid down on Maribel's bed, hugging himself and the picture, and sobbed.

* * *

He slept most of the morning on Maribel's bed. No one disturbed him. When he woke, with indents in his hands from the frame, he replaced the photo on the bedside table. With his index finger he caressed Maribel's face gently and smiled. "I miss you," he whispered.

He took his rental car to the closest nursery he could find. He bought a small shovel and daisies, and dirt, just in case, and a bag of decorative rock. Then he went to Maribel's grave and planted the daisies and set the rock, one by one, in a border along the edges, making sure he left room for the headstone, which wouldn't be ready for at least another month.

When he was done, and the remnants of his work placed back in the trunk of the car, he sat cross-legged on the fresh sod, staring at the marker and the daisies. It wasn't long before he heard footfalls behind him, and he turned to smile at Pilar.

"It's beautiful," she said, and struggled a little to sit near him in the grass. Nick held up a hand to assist, and she thanked him as she settled. "Mama was worried when she realized you weren't there."

"I'll have to apologize," he replied. "I didn't mean to worry anyone."

"She knows," said Pilar. "I saw the dress you gave to Emilia. It's gorgeous."

"I didn't give it to Emilia," he whispered. "Maribel did. She asked me to make sure her sisters got it." He shook his head, looking up at the sky a moment, and then asked, "Why didn't she just tell me Emilia was engaged?"

Pilar was quiet a moment, thinking. "Parents do things to protect their children," she began, rubbing her belly. "But sometimes children do things to protect their parents. And Maribel . . . she wanted to protect everyone. She didn't want us to watch her die, and I understand that. But I don't think she realized that we all wanted to be there for her." She was quiet a moment, looking at Nick's daisies and the temporary marker. "Maybe she wanted you to have a happy surprise when you saw us again."

"She was so stubborn," replied Nick.

Pilar was quiet again, looking Nick over. Then she asked, "Was it peaceful? When she died. . . . Was she comfortable?"

Nick nodded, fighting the sudden lump in his throat. "Yeah. We'd been talking, on and off. She slept a lot. She was in a lot of pain without the morphine, so she was kind of doped up. She'd sleep for a while, and we'd talk for a while. She told me she was happy. It was really early Thursday morning . . . she woke up. Asked me to not be mad at her. I told her I wasn't mad . . . we talked about the day we met. She laughed and told me she loved me. Then she fell asleep." Nick paused, trying to swallow that damn lump again. "It was only a few more hours. It was peaceful. She wasn't alone."

"She loved you so much," whispered Pilar. "I hope you know that. She tried to date other boys, when she was healthier, but I think it was just for Papa's sake."

"I love her too, Pilar," he said. "I always did. And you know . . . you guys have always meant a lot to me."

"We do know, Nick. I hope you won't be a stranger, now that you know where we are."

He smiled. "No. . . . I'll come visit. You have to let me know when your Maria Isabel comes into the world."

Pilar rubbed her belly again. "I'll be sure to," she said, smiling.

"I'm going to try to get a flight tomorrow," he said. "Early. It'll be a long day; I have to explain everything to my family."

"Have you heard from them? Do you think they'll be upset?"

Nick shrugged. "I don't know, to be honest. I mean, Maribel was hard not to love. My sisters always liked her, but they didn't spend all that much time together. They were all away from home when I met Maribel. My parents _really_ liked her. They'll be upset . . . I kinda feel bad for not returning their calls. But what was I gonna say?"

"Everything happened so fast for you."

"Yeah." He nodded. "They don't know where I am or when I'll be home. They're mad at me," he said, looking around the graveyard. Then he smirked and looked over at her. "I have multiple voice mails – some I've listened to and some I haven't. My dad's probably plotting to put me in a place a lot like this."

"They're just trying to protect you," said Pilar. "They just want to know you're safe."

"Yeah, but I don't want to be protected. I want to be supported." He fell silent for a long moment, and then took a deep breath. "Last night, and this morning . . . I was lookin' at photos of Maribel. And I can see how she made a difference for people. All the service projects she did with your church, things she did in the community, how much she helped your mom at home – I mean, that was who she was. She always said she wanted to be a wife and mother and when she found out she couldn't be that the way she wanted, she found a different way. She had so little time and she knew not to waste it.

"I always thought I'd marry her. Even after looking and looking and never finding her I didn't even think of trying to find a different path to take in life. And now she's gone . . . like that." Nick snapped his fingers. "So now what?"

He looked up at Pilar, the question sincere in his eyes. She smiled gently. "I wish I could answer that for you, Nick." Then she looked over the gravesite, at the fresh dirt and sod, and the daisies he'd planted. "It's a beautiful place to rest."

"Do you believe she's resting?"

"Yes."

Nick smiled and looked from Pilar to the marker. "No more weakness, no more pain," he said, a repeat of Carlos' words when he looked upon Maribel before the wake. "She told me she was happy."

"And you know Maribel would not lie to you. She was happy because she made herself that way," said Pilar. "You can be happy again too, Nick. You just need to find another path."

He nodded, knowing she was right. Then he smiled over at Pilar and rose, helping her to her feet.

* * *

Nick lived in an apartment in a relatively trendy part of Dallas. It was small, but it was close to the building where he worked, and he didn't spend enough time there to need a bigger one. He'd always liked it, it was simple and had what he needed, but it had never really felt like home. He had always assumed that would change once he got married, and once that happened, he wouldn't live in this tiny apartment much longer.

When he opened the door of his apartment, a married and then widowed man, he took a long look around. He'd packed quickly and left in haste in the very early morning hours almost two weeks ago. Some evidence of his brief respite and harried packing still remained – the unmade bed, the open dresser drawers, the dishes in the sink. He looked around and felt a vague sense of emptiness.

There was really nothing here for him. Sure, he had his family, but they all had lives of their own. His father had recently gone so far as to discuss retirement, although Nick knew he would probably sit the bench until he died. His mother had plenty going on in her own retirement – she golfed, volunteered, and had several grandchildren already. It wouldn't matter where he was; he knew that it would be a long time before there would be even a hint at a grandchild from him.

He put his suitcase on his messy bed and then sat down with a thud. Captain Brass' offer was starting to look like a vaguely good idea, and he knew he had to make a decision soon. He decided to go for a drive, so he could do what Maribel had intended to do – to visit all those places that had meant so much to them, back when he had dreams and plans and her in his arms.

From his suitcase he extracted the marriage certificate Father Frank had issued. Then he put on a light jacket and tucked the paper into the inside pocket, so that it rested over his heart.

His first stop was the baseball practice field where he had first met Carlos. Standing at home plate, he remembered running harder than he'd ever run to catch Bubba McFarland's monster of a hit, remembered the sting of his hand when it landed in the glove and being grateful that it hadn't landed on the boy. He remembered Carlos' defiant smirk, his request to play baseball . . . and then, the first time he laid eyes on his sister. They had all been so young then, and completely oblivious.

He drove by Maribel's old house. The outside had been re-painted, but the daisies he'd planted in the front were still there. He remembered being invited to her house for supper, and spending most of his time in the kitchen with Maribel and her mother, because chatting was simply not something Ramón was into. He remembered sitting at the Serrano's table, especially when they added neighbors, friends, or family, and being delighted with the loud chatter, passing of dishes, storytelling, and laughter. Dinners at home, when all of the Stokeses were gathered, were big enough, but quiet manners were always insisted upon.

He drove in a circle around the school grounds. It had changed a lot in the nine years since he'd graduated, and it wasn't quite the same. He still remembered holding her hand in the hallways, and kissing her in abandoned corridors.

His last stop was Holy Cross Catholic Church. Nick parked the truck and got out, walking toward the church with his hands in his jacket pockets. He stared up at the white stucco building, its bright steel cross gleaming in the setting sun. He lifted his face up to it, knowing that Maribel had loved the community here, and trying his hardest not to be angry at just that moment. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander backwards, from the first time he attended Mass with her family – utterly confused even if he understood Spanish – to her Quinceañera, to service projects they did together, to pushing Juanita on the swings in the playground.

He had memories, he thought – at least he had that. It was something, even if it wasn't enough.

"Nicky Stokes?"

The sudden voice was vaguely familiar, and he opened his eyes and lowered his head. Turning around, he saw her – she looked older, if that was possible, and her osteoporosis had advanced a bit further, but her face alit with a smile when he met her eyes.

"Mrs. Peterfeso," he said, approaching her. "How are you, ma'am?"

She chuckled a little. "Oh, I'm well – but you look a little haggard, young man. I hope you haven't been up all night drinking or something foolish like that."

He shook his head. "No, ma'am," he said, and didn't want to elaborate. "You still live over this way?"

"Yes; just out for a walk. My Princess died several years ago, but I still like my walks."

_My princess died four days ago_, thought Nick, but replied with a vague, "That's good. The walking, I mean."

"What are you doing over here? I thought you lived closer to downtown."

She could have recited his exact address and he wouldn't have been surprised. She made it her business to be friendly with his father and probably volunteered at the courthouse just so she'd have a reason to happen upon him. "I, um . . . I do. I was just drivin' by. Going over old memories."

Her expression softened a little, and she nodded. "I see. You must have some very good ones."

"Yeah," he said with a smile. "I do."

"I'd think you'd be at school or the ball fields for those," she said.

He shook his head. "More of them here – and at home," he said.

She looked confused for a moment. "This isn't your church," she said, and then she remembered. "Oh – but that's right. You dated that little Mexican girl for a while."

"Maribel," he whispered.

Mrs. Peterfeso smiled. "Yes, that's her. She had a whole gaggle of sisters, didn't she?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. And a brother."

"Yes, that's right. I remember her brother – he absolutely refused to speak English."

"Yeah, that's Carlos," he replied with a smirk.

She harrumphed. "And we were supposed to believe they were legal." She shook her head and looked away.

Nick stared at her a moment. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you must have known," she said dismissively. "There were several families who hadn't any documentation at school – and you know, that principal, Dr. Bentley, wouldn't do a thing about it. But I know what my civic duty is."

Cold fury starting to run through his veins, Nick narrowed his eyes and glared at her. "_You_ called immigration on those families? On the Serranos?"

"Of course I did," she admitted unabashedly. "Our schools are so over-crowded; they were even back then, with children who actually belong in this country." She put on a condescending smile. "We don't need extras."

"Extras?" he thundered. "_Extras_? That's what they were to you? Not _children_, not people who deserved an education?"

Mrs. Peterfeso looked taken aback by his outburst, but she held her ground. "Now Nicky . . . you know how things work; you're the son of a judge. When you come into this country legally, find a job, and pay taxes – that's one thing-"

"Mr. Serrano _did_ pay taxes," he snapped. "He worked his ass off!"

"There's no need for that kind of language," she replied, her tone sharp.

"There was no need for you to stick your nose in where it didn't belong." His tone was quieter now, but hadn't lost any of its venom. "You uprooted those families. You took those kids away from everything they knew and loved. You took Maribel away from me. I looked for her for nine years, and you know where I found her? In a hospital, fighting a disease that wouldn't have killed her if she'd been able to stay here and marry me!"

Mrs. Peterfeso took a step backward, her lips pursed in anger. "I think this is where you and I should say goodbye, Mr. Stokes."

"That's a great idea," he snapped. "And next time you see my father, why don't you do him a favor and leave him the hell alone?"

She scowled, not quite ready to give up. "You know, your father was _never_ going to let you marry that girl," she said. She had lost every pretense of sweetness. "It wasn't going to matter where she was, or where you were."

Nick's eyebrows shot up. "_Let_ me? He wasn't going to _let me_?" He closed the gap between them again, reaching into his coat pocket to extract the thin piece of paper he'd placed there before he left his apartment. He opened it, and held it up for her to see. "Judge Stokes was not asked to approve this." Her eyes flicked to the paper, and then back to his face, which now held the hint of a smirk. "Nice and _legal_," he said. "Just how you like it."

"You married her."

"Yeah, I _married_ her." He folded the paper again, and tucked it away. "And I buried her on Monday."

Her head still held high, she drew a breath. "Well. I'm sorry for that. But I don't see-"

"That's right, Mrs. Peterfeso – you _don't_ see. And I don't have any patience left for you. As far as I'm concerned, her blood is on your hands. Have a nice day."

He turned sharply and headed toward his truck, not giving her a backward glance, mumbling expletives against her as he climbed in and drove away.

* * *

Bill and Jillian Stokes were seated in their living room with their eldest son and eldest daughter. They were waiting for Nick to finally make an appearance, after more than ten days of silence from him. He had, as promised, called Bill when he landed in Dallas, and said he'd be at the ranch around supper time. But now it was nearly six thirty, and there had been no sign of him.

It wasn't like their youngest member to be so non-communicative. The siblings all knew he was irritated with everyone being in his business all the time, but he'd always called at least one of them to say where he'd be if it wasn't work or home. Audra was closest to Nick and knew him best, and she was completely baffled the he hadn't called her, even to let her know he was okay.

"Where did he say he was?" she asked, trying to think things through.

"Las Vegas," came the reply from Bill. "His captain is about ready to can his ass, and I don't know that I blame him."

"Captain Fischer's been ready to can my ass since I showed up for my first day of work lookin' like _you_."

Nick's uncharacteristically disgusted voice from the kitchen doorway caused everyone to turn; his mother and sister rose to embrace him in relief.

"You have some explainin' to do, son," said Bill when the ladies were seated again.

Nick, freshly showered and still carrying his t-shirt in his hand, nodded and let his eyes float over the room. Then he pulled his shirt over his head and walked over to the liquor cabinet. Jillian and Audra exchanged worried looks.

"How long have you been here, Nicky?" ventured Audra.

"Couple hours," he replied. "Barn was a pigsty; I had to move some wood and hay, and I don't know where Dad keeps the truck keys anymore, so I used mine." He reached for the whiskey and poured himself a shot. "But it's clean now . . . which is impressive, because this," he said, holding up the glass, "is not my first shot today." He tossed the liquor back and winced a little as it burned its way down his throat.

"How many shots have you had today?"

Nick laughed a little and poured again. "This makes six," he replied as he toasted his sister with the amber liquid. She rose and headed for the kitchen with a scowl. Then his eyes caught his brother's; Billy was staring at him, his face a mixture of concern and irritation.

"You know what, Billy? I owe you an apology," Nick said, holding a firm gaze with him. "Do you remember that day I cracked your jaw?"

Billy's eyebrow shot up. "You didn't crack my jaw, you just hit me," he replied defensively.

Nick laughed. "You had a bruise the size of a baseball for two weeks," he replied. "I cracked your jaw good. I know you remember, Billy – it was right after you called my girlfriend a spic."

Billy made a face and put his finger to his lips. "Don't say stuff like that – Anamaria's in the kitchen," he growled.

"Oh, so it's okay to say it, as long as Anamaria doesn't hear you? Besides, I _know_ she's in the kitchen," Nick snapped back. "I just _came_ from the kitchen, dumbass."

"Nick, please – language?"

Nick glanced at his mother, and then noted that his sister had returned, slightly less irritated. "Yeah, sorry, Momma," he said distractedly, and then turned back to Billy. "Look, here's the deal – I always assumed that you were the one who called immigration about Maribel's family. You were all fired up about that stuff back then. And you really enjoyed being a complete ass and making fun of me about it."

Billy grimaced at his little brother. "How 'bout you just get to the part where you apologize?"

Nick looked away a moment, and then back at Billy. "Yeah . . . okay. I apologize for assuming you turned the Serranos in."

The elder brother sneered at Nick. "That's it? That's all you feel you need to apologize to me for?"

"Pretty much," replied Nick.

"You punched me in the face!" protested Billy loudly.

"You insulted my woman," he replied, unruffled. "You deserved it."

Billy turned to his father. "Dad-"

"You did," was all he said.

"I guess I'll remember that the next time you say somethin' I don't like," Billy spat bitterly.

"Billy, don't act like you're still in high school," scolded Jillian. "Honestly, that was years ago. Just let it be."

Billy stood and moved to leave the room, but was stayed by his father's stern glance. "Siddown," he said. Billy sat, but was infuriated.

After a moment, Billy asked, "So . . . Officer Nick . . . what finally vindicated me from the horrid crime of sending your woman back to where she belongs?"

"Mrs. Peterfeso," replied Nick, who wanted to crack Billy in the jaw again. "You remember her?"

"The secretary at the high school? What's she got to do with anything?"

"She told me it was her."

"When?" asked Jillian. "And why would she do a thing like that?"

Nick sighed and turned toward his mother. "This afternoon, I went over to Holy Cross – Maribel's old church. Mrs. Peterfeso lives over that way and I came across her as she was takin' her walk." Nick looked around aimlessly again, not wanting to remember the conversation. He shook his head. "Kind of a long story . . . but apparently she's more of a stickler for immigration law enforcement than Billy is. I remember Maribel complaining about her being nosy, asking for things she didn't need. . . . Anyway – she knew a bunch of families weren't legal and when she couldn't get the principal to kick the kids out of school, she called INS." He looked up at Billy. "She was proud of turning them in; said she had done her civic duty."

Unable to help himself, Billy protested. "She _did_ do her civic duty, Nick. You're a law enforcement officer – you should know that. Jesus Christ, what kind of training does the Dallas PD put you through when you can't sort out the simplest of laws?"

"Go fuck yourself, Billy," spat Nick.

"Boys!" exclaimed Jillian. "You will remain civil in this house, do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am," was the flat reply from both. Silence reigned for a few minutes. Nick looked at the glass in his hand, having honestly forgotten it was there, and then tilted his head back to toss the whiskey into his mouth, letting it tingle a moment.

"Did you get married, Pancho?"

He almost spit the whiskey back out, but forced it down his throat. It burned angrily, and Nick let the question linger a while. He looked from his mother to Audra and then back at his father, holding his gaze as he tried mightily to control his voice. He was surprised at his cold tone when he did speak, with one eyebrow raised. "Now how would you know that?"

"Don't be coy with me, Nicholas. You worried your sisters and you made your momma cry. Answer my question."

Nick shook his head. "You tell me how you _know_ that."

"The hell's the difference, Nick? Just tell him!" demanded Billy.

Before Nick could respond, his father was barking at him again. "You're our son, their brother. We have a right to know where you've been."

"No, you _don't_!" snapped Nick.

"Nicky," began his mother, her tone chiding.

It was too much for Nick, and he set the whiskey glass down, hard, on the top of the liquor cabinet, making the whole thing rattle. "Fine," he spat. "Y'all can wonder."

"Pancho-"

"Don't God damn _Pancho_ me!" he hollered, his voice raw. He glared at his father like he'd never dared to do in his life. "I'm not a kid; I'm twenty-seven. You're followin' me like I'm some kind of criminal, and that's just supposed to be _okay_? Nice to know you got so much faith in me, Cisco. Nice to know how much you trust me." He couldn't chastise his mother, no matter how much he wanted to. "I'm goin' home."

"No, you're not, Nicky," said Audra. "Mister Six Shots of Whiskey. Besides, we're your family and we won't apologize for being worried about you."

"This isn't about being worried about me, Audra! It's about y'all mindin' your own damn business! How many times have we _talked_ about this? What do you not _get_ about it yet?"

"Your business is our business, son," said his father sternly; Nick growled and left the room.

"Dad!" exclaimed Audra, "would you back off?" She turned away from her astonished parents and followed Nick to the front door. "Nicky, wait!"

His hand on the knob, he turned to her. "What?" he growled.

"I was serious about the not driving stuff – you'll get arrested and lose your job."

"I'm fine."

"You're drunk, and Anamaria has your keys."

Nick dropped his head. "I want to go home," he said. "I wanna go home and drink until I pass out and you know what? If I never wake up maybe you'll all be a little happier, 'cuz then you'll always know where I am."

"We were just worried," she said. "Nicky, you know we love you. Maybe Dad crossed a line-"

"_Maybe_?"

"Okay . . . Dad crossed a line. I can't apologize for him for that. Frankly, I don't know if he'll do it – although, he should. But look – it's just not like you. And we were worried."

Nick looked her over, Jim Brass' face flashing in his mind briefly. "Audra, I have to tell you somethin'."

Audra nodded, and took him by the arm to guide him toward the staircase. "Okay. Why don't you come on up to your room. We'll talk there."

Defeated and starting to really feel the effects of the whiskey and his laboring in the barn, he nodded and allowed his sister to deliver him to the safety of his childhood bedroom. Once there, he sat with a thud on the bed and then laid down on it, glaring at the Kiss poster which he had – for some long-forgotten reason – tacked to the ceiling.

"I'm just going to go tell Momma that you're up here," said Audra.

"Yeah, okay," replied Nick, as he stared blankly at Gene Simmons' painted face. By the time Audra returned, Nick had fallen asleep.

* * *

It was just past noon when Nick drug himself out of bed for a shower. He put on an old pair of jeans and t-shirt he purposely kept at the house, and fished his wedding ring out of the pocket of his dirty jeans and put it on his finger. He tucked Maribel's ring and necklace into his pocket. Then he went downstairs.

He could hear chattering in the kitchen, and picked out the voices of his parents, his brother, and three of his sisters. Wanting quiet, he snuck into his father's office to take the cordless phone, and went to the front porch. There, he took the time to listen to all of his voicemail. There were a handful from friends, both in the department and not, wondering where he was and what he was up to, but most of them were from one of his sisters or parents.

Letting out a deep sigh when he'd finished listening to, and then deleting, all of them, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and extracted the note paper on which he'd scribbled Jim Brass' phone number, and dialed.

"Brass."

"Hello, sir – this is Nick Stokes, from the Dallas crime lab. How are you?"

"I'm just dandy, Stokes. What can I do for you?"

Nick took a deep breath. "I'd like to talk about that job you offered."

"Nothin' changed," he said. "Graveyard shift, Sunday through Thursday. Ten hour days are our standard, but you know how it goes – criminals don't exactly have a slow season."

"So it's still available?"

"Yep. You interested?"

"Yes, sir – I'd like to accept it."

"Excellent. I'll just have the HR people get ahold of you, and you can work out your start date and all that. I'm pretty flexible on that, as long as it's not two months from now." Nick heard a familiar high-pitched beeping in the background. "And that is my pager, so I'll look forward to hearing from you soon."

"Thank you, sir," replied Nick. "I'm looking forward to it."

"See you around, Stokes."

Nick hung up the phone and rested his hand in his lap. Now all that remained was to explain everything to his family. It was a lot, and he didn't know if they'd understand. But there was nothing for it; he closed his eyes and sighed. "Cowboy up, Stokes," he mumbled to himself.

The kitchen table was laden with food and crowded with Stokeses, a handful of them who didn't even reach Nick's knee yet. He smiled at his oldest niece, Audra's five year old daughter Grace, whose bright chocolate eyes and mess of strawberry blonde curls always lifted his spirits.

"Hi, Uncle Nicky!" She slinked out of her chair and ran over to him, her arms up.

He didn't know why, but his eyes filled even as he smiled. "Hi Gracie," he said, and he picked her up and held her like he hadn't seen her in a year. Someone vacated a chair and he sat down in it, keeping Grace with him. The kitchen became silent.

He looked around at everyone and then said, "I'm sorry for not callin' y'all back. Things just . . . got a little complicated."

Audra handed him a cup of coffee, and he thanked her and took a sip.

"Grandpa says you got married," said Grace. "How come you didn't tell me so I could be your flower girl?"

Nick set the cup down. "You know what, Gracie? I would have loved that." The tears hadn't stopped, and someone – he suspected his mother – handed him some tissues. He blotted his eyes and then looked into his niece's innocent face. "I wish you had been there."

"I wish _we_ had been there," said Bill.

Nick ignored him. "Your Auntie Maribel would have loved you."

"Where is she?" asked his mother. "Nicky, I thought . . . I thought you had let go of Maribel."

"I wasn't lookin'," he said wearily, turning away from the comfort of Grace's face. "I did let go. Doesn't mean I stopped loving her."

Jillian nodded in understanding, and waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she ventured, "So . . . if you married her, where is she?"

Nick turned to look out the window. "She's in Los Angeles."

"Why did you leave her there, Nick?" asked Jillian. "You know we always loved Maribel, don't you?"

He didn't immediately answer. He shook his head sadly, mourning again for all of the things he'd never experience with her. He felt cold when Grace climbed off his lap at Audra's insistence, and was shooed from the room. "She was sick," he said, struggling to speak. "She had lupus. She, um . . . she. . . ." Nick held his empty hands in front of himself, the same way he had cradled Maribel, and didn't notice the tears that had crept out of his eyes to stain his unshaven cheeks. "Three days later, in my arms in the hospital. She died."

His mother drew in a breath and touched her mouth with her fingertips, and was not the only Stokes woman to murmur, "Oh, Nicky. . . ."

He didn't mean to, but he sobbed as he drew in a breath. "I'll never . . . Momma, I wanted. . . ."

Jillian rose and walked over to her son, and sat down in the chair next to his to draw his head closer and tuck it under her chin. "Nicky, I'm so sorry," she whispered, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

It was enough to let the floodgates of Nick's pent-up emotion open, and even though it made him feel like a helpless little boy, he sobbed in his mother's arms – for Maribel's illness, for her death, and for his own now-blurred path.

"I'm so sorry," Jillian whispered again.

After a long moment, Nick sat up and took his mother's hand. "Do you remember when Grandpa Stokes died?" he whispered.

"Yes," she replied, squeezing. "You took it hard."

Nick nodded. "The day of his funeral, after we'd gotten home, Maribel and I went up into the loft. I know Dad thought we were screwin' around. . . . But we weren't. She and I just sat in the hay. Didn't say anything. And then when it was time to take her home. . . . It just felt so wrong to have to leave her."

Jillian put her hand on her son's cheek. "So you asked her to marry you."

"I promised that I would marry her," he corrected gently. "All she ever wanted was a home and family of her own. And I was talkin' about someday, after college, and gettin' a job, and gettin' settled into a house, that's when we'd get married, and that's when we'd have our family. Only we never got a someday."

Jillian pulled him close again for another hug.

"Why didn't we get a someday? Why didn't _she_ get a someday, even if it wasn't with me?"

"I wish I could answer that," said Jillian. "I'm sorry, baby."

For a while, there was more silence. Billy didn't know what to say or what to think, so he wisely kept his mouth shut. Audra reached over and squeezed his hand.

"Pancho," whispered Bill gruffly from the end of the table, and Nick looked up to see his father's face worried with grief. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't-"

"Don't, Cisco," he said, holding up a hand. "Leave it be."

"I didn't know you still held onto her," said Bill. "I didn't know you were still hopin' to find her after all this time."

Nick smiled. "I never lost hope that I'd find her," he admitted. "All those trips to Houston and California. . . . I was lookin' for her. I never expected. . . ." He allowed his thought to trail off, not yet able to say that he had been too late. "You know what she said to me, Cisco? 'We do what we feel is right and necessary at the time. Only God can do more.'"

Bill nodded solemnly. "I always liked that little girl, Pancho."

"I don't know if I believe her." His family was silent, watching him study the tablecloth. Then he looked up at his father. "I have some more news."

Jillian looked up. "Nicky?"

He turned toward her and knew he should be sorry for his next statement, but wasn't. "I'm moving to Las Vegas."

Jillian's face went blank for a moment. "You're what?"

"Pancho?" Nick looked over at his father and was surprised to find his brow worried. "Pancho . . . Miss Maribel . . . she's gone, son. Goin' back to where you lost her don't bring her home."

Billy narrowed his eyes across the table. "You can't _move_, Nick," he spat. "What are you gonna. . . . Who would you. . . . You can't _move_."

Nick smirked a little. "I didn't know you cared, Billy."

His brother looked away. "I don't. I _don't_ care."

The youngest Stokes turned his attention back to his mother. "Before I left, Captain Brass offered me a job. Las Vegas is the number two crime lab in the country. These are some of the best criminalists there are . . . I'd be crazy not to take the job."

"Nicky, I want you to think about this," Bill began, his authoritative tone turned up full-tilt. "Really think about being so far away from everything you know and love. I know it sounds romantic, but it's not. It's gonna be one of the hardest things you'll ever have to do."

But Nick's patience had run out. "I just buried my wife!" he snapped. "I think I can handle being away from the palace for a while, Your Honor."

"Pancho-"

"No – look, I'm sorry," he replied, getting up from the table. "I'm sorry, Cisco, but I need to get away from this for a while. I don't know how long – maybe a few years, maybe forever, I don't know – but everything's changed for me. I was supposed to find Maribel and marry her and have my own family and now that ain't gonna happen. I need to be done bein' one of you for a while so I can figure out how to be me. I need to be done bein' a Stokes. _Billy_ likes havin' your name attached to everything he does; I don't. It's _Billy_ who crows every time someone says, 'Oh – you're Jillian's boy, aren't you?' like he has no identity of his own."

Billy rolled his eyes. "You're so dramatic," he complained. "I don't crow."

Audra kicked him under the table. "Stop making everything about yourself, you jackass." Billy glared at Audra and Audra glared right back until he looked away. Then she turned to her mother. "Listen, Momma . . . this was bound to happen. I mean, you got seven of us. We're all settled pretty close by."

By then Bill had run out of patience for discussing personal feelings and heaved a sigh. "Pancho, would you sit down, please?"

Though he hid it well, Nick was so astonished that his father had asked him politely that he pulled out his chair again and sat.

When his son was seated and had his face turned toward him, Bill took a breath. "I'm sorry about Maribel. You know that, right?"

Nick nodded. "Yes, sir."

Bill looked briefly down the table at his wife. "Your mother and I loved her. We know how much _you_ loved her."

"I did," said Nick. "I do."

"I'm sorry that your name is a burden to you," he began, and when Nick began to protest he held up a hand to silence him. "No, Pancho, it's what it is – it's a burden on a man's identity. It's not your fault and you shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to get away and build your own life."

Nick tried to make his father meet his eyes when he paused. "But . . . ?"

Bill sighed. "I just think this is an emotional decision on your part."

"It is," said Nick. "But it's not like you think. It's like . . . when she left . . . that part of me got put on hold. I mean . . . I went to college and I went to the academy and I made my career happen. But I always felt like – like it was the day after Maribel left. Like I could still find her, if I'd only look hard enough. And I know I dated other girls – nice girls, who I really did like – but in the back of my head I was always thinkin' . . . this is just temporary. Maribel's still out there . . . she's somewhere. And it never occurred to me that she'd managed to move on. She grew and made a difference in her family and community – and I . . . just got older. I held on to that dream of being with Maribel and what did I miss?" He looked over at his mother. "I'll never know. Maybe nothin'. But maybe I missed something fantastic. And this thing in Las Vegas is a fantastic opportunity."

"Fischer is not going to give you your job back if it doesn't work out."

Nick turned to his father. "Fischer can get bent," he said in a flare of impatience. "I've already accepted the job. I'm going." His eyes never wavered from Bill's.

The older man sighed, looking over his son for a moment. "All right, Pancho. All right. Do you need anything?"

"Yeah," said Nick. "Money. Funerals are expensive as hell."

* * *

Weeks passed, and as Nick executed his move he heard from his in-laws frequently. Emilia and Lucas had decided on a wedding in Mexico; charges against Ramon had been dropped and he had been deported, so he'd be able to give her away. Little Maribel, Pilar's daughter, continued to thrive and was due around mid-November.

Nick continued to wear his wedding ring until the day he started to work for the Las Vegas Police Department. He'd taken it off reluctantly, and put it in a box with Maribel's ring and crucifix. The necklace, he figured, would be a meaningful gift for her namesake one day.

It was early afternoon when he entered the Las Vegas Crime Lab. He spent the afternoon filling out forms, receiving his ID, and watching the usual HR videos, and then had a dinner break. When he returned, thankful he hadn't gotten lost, Warrick was waiting for him.

Nick smiled and shook his hand and they shared small talk about his move, and they took a tour of the building. Nick chose a locker and was welcomed by Catherine and Greg, and asked Warrick when he'd be able to get a weapon.

"You seem pretty excited about that," said Warrick with a grin.

"CSIs in Dallas aren't allowed to carry," he said, a little embarrassed. "Just lookin' forward to that."

"We can ask Brass when we catch him – I don't know when that'll be. Sometimes he's hard to get ahold of. I just need to introduce you to Grissom – our shift lead – and then we can go on the hunt for Brass."

"Sounds good," said Nick.

Gil Grissom was reading from what Nick assumed was a forensics journal when they entered his office. He held up a finger as if to say, "One moment, please." Warrick rolled his eyes, but waited.

When he was done, Grissom looked up. "Hello."

"Hey, Gris – this is our new CSI, Nick Stokes. Nick, this is Gil Grissom."

Nick offered his hand and Grissom shook it, looking him over. "It's nice to meet you, Nick. I'm going to need a pint of your blood."

The smile on Nick's face fell. "My what?"

"Your blood. Standard procedure," he shrugged, and then bade Nick to follow him.

He was tending to the bandage Grissom – who was surprised when Nick accepted, and ate, the chocolate-covered grasshopper he'd offered – had applied too tightly when he and Warrick met up with Jim Brass, who was on his way to PD. He shook Nick's hand and welcomed him with his first assignment. "It's your lucky day, Stokes – Brown is gonna get your feet wet with a 419 on Fremont Street."

"Welcome to Las Vegas," said Warrick, when Brass had walked away. Nick grinned and followed him down the hall.

* * *

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